and is gazing at her reproachfully.

"Here is fickle Fortune's favorite literally at our feet," says Owen
Kelly; and, before Monica can say anything, Brian has mounted the two
steps that lie between him and her, and is at her side.

"If I may not dance with you, may I at least talk to you for a moment or
two?" he says, hurriedly.

"Certainly," with cold surprise.

"I don't think three of us could sit together comfortably on this one
step," says Mr. Kelly, with a thoughtful glance at its dimensions,--"not
even if we squeezed up to each other ever so much; and I am afraid,"
mournfully, "Miss Beresford might not like that, either. Would you, Miss
Beresford?"

"Not much," says Monica. "But why need you stir? Mr. Desmond has asked
at the most for two moments; they will go quickly by: in fact,"
unkindly, "I should think they are already gone."

"And yet he has not begun his '_talk_.' Make haste Desmond. Time, tide,
and Miss Beresford wait for no man. Hurry! we are all on the tiptoe of
expectation." As Mr. Kelly says all this in a breath, he encourages
Desmond generously to "come on" by a wave of his hand; whereupon Brian,
who is not in his sweetest mood, directs a glance at him that ought to
annihilate any ordinary man, but is thrown away upon Kelly, who is
fire-proof.

"Some other time, then, as I disturb you now," says Brian, haughtily,
addressing himself pointedly to Monica.

"By no means," says his whilom friend, rising. "Take my place for your
two moments,--not a second longer, remember! I feel with grief that Miss
Beresford will probably hail the exchange of partners with rapture.
'Talk,' says Bacon, 'is but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love;'
and as she would not let me discourse on any topics tenderer than the
solar system and the Channel Tunnel, I have no doubt she has found it
very slow. Now, _you_ will be the--er--other thing quite!"

With this speech, so full of embarrassing possibilities, he bows to
Monica, smiles at the gloomy Desmond, and finally withdraws himself
gracefully from their view. Not without achieving his end, however: they
both heartily wish him back again even while he is going.

"What have I done?" asks Desmond, abruptly, turning to Monica, who is
gazing in a rapt fashion at her large black fan.

"Done?"

"Don't answer me like that, Monica. I have offended you. I can see that.
But how? Every moment of this wretched afternoon, until you came, I
spent wondering when you would