was you said he was no savant,
and would be unlikely to set the Liffey afire."

"For which we should be devoutly grateful," says Olga, frivolously.
"Consider, if he _could_, what the consequences would be, both to life
and property. Poor young man! I really think Government ought to give
him a pension because he _can't_."

"And what about all the other young men?" asks Hermia. And then she
yawns.

Here Monica--who has been absent with Mr. Ryde for the best part of an
hour--comes up to them, and presently Terence, with the Fitzgeralds, and
Miss Priscilla and Lord Rossmoyne.

"I heard a story yesterday I want to tell you," says Terence, gayly,
singling out Miss Fitzgerald and Olga, and sinking upon the grass at the
former's feet. He is such a handsome merry boy that he is a favorite
with all the women. Miss Priscilla stands near him; the others are all
conversing together about the coming plays at Aghyohillbeg.

"It is about the curate," says Terence, gleefully. "You know, he is
awful spoons on the ugliest French girl, and the other day he wanted to
run up to Dublin to get her a ring, or something, but----"

"Now, Terence, dear, surely that is not the way to pronounce that word,"
says Miss Priscilla, anxiously; "such a vulgar pronounciation--'bu-ut.'
How you drawled it! How ugly it sounds--'bu-ut!' Now put your lips
together like mine, so, and say 'but,' _shortly_. Now begin your story
again, and tell it nicely."

Terence begins again,--_very_ good humoredly, thinks Olga,--and has
almost reached the point, when Miss Priscilla breaks in again:

"Now, not so fast, my dear Terence. I really cannot follow you at all. I
don't even understand what you are at. Gently, my dear boy. Now begin it
all over again, and be more explicit."

But the fun is all out of Terence by this time, though Olga is so
convulsed with laughter that it might have been the best story on
record, which somewhat astonishes though it consoles Terence, as when
his funny incident is related in a carefully modulated voice, and with a
painful precision, it strikes even him as being hopelessly
uninteresting. However, Mrs. Bohun certainly enjoys it,--or something
else, perhaps: fortunately, it never occurs to Terry to ponder on the
"something else."

"Hermia, Olga, come now, my dears. You can't stay here for _ever_, you
know," cries Madam O'Connor's loud but cheery voice. "It is nearly
seven. Come, I tell you, or the Misses Blake, our good friends her