ongregated beneath a giant
fir, and are, comparatively speaking, cool.

Just before luncheon Madam O'Connor brought Monica home in triumph with
her from Moyne, to find Desmond, handsome and happy, on her doorstep,
waiting with calm certainty an invitation to that meal. He got it, and
to dinner likewise.

"We have set our hearts on tableaux, but it is _so_ difficult to think
of any scene fresh and unhackneyed," says Olga, gazing plaintively into
Lord Rossmoyne's sympathetic face.

"Don't give way," says Mr. Kelly, tenderly. "It must be a poor intellect
that couldn't rise superior to such a demand as that. Given one minute,
I believe even I could produce an idea as novel as it would be
brilliant."

"You shall have your minute," says Olga, pulling out her watch.
"Now--begin----"

"Time's up," she says, presently, when sixty seconds have honestly
expired.

"You might have said that thirty seconds ago, and I should not have
objected," says Mr. Kelly, with an assured smile.

"And your idea."

"_The Huguenots!_"

Need I say that every one is exceedingly angry?

"Ever heard it before?" asks Mr. Kelly, with aggressive insolence; which
question, being considered as adding insult to injury, is treated with
silent contempt.

"I told you it was not to be done," says Olga, petulantly addressing
everybody generally.

"I can't agree with you. I see no reason why it should fall to the
ground," says Miss Fitzgerald, warmly, who is determined to show herself
off in a gown that has done duty for "Madame Favart," and the "Bohemian
Girl," and "Maritana," many a time and oft.

"I have another idea," says Mr. Kelly, at this opportune moment.

"If it is as useful as your first, you may keep it," says Olga, with
pardonable indignation.

"I am misunderstood," says Mr. Kelly, mournfully, but with dignity. "I
shall write to Miss Montgomery and ask her to make another pathetic tale
about me. As you are bent on trampling upon an unknown genius,--poor but
proud--I shall _not_ make you acquainted with this last beautiful
thought which I have evolved from my inner consciousness."

"Don't say that! _do_ tell it to us," says Monica, eagerly, and in
perfect good faith. She knows less of him than the others, and may
therefore be excused for still believing in him.

"Thank you, Miss Beresford. _You_ can soar above a mean desire to crush
a rising power. You have read, of course, that popular poem by our
poet-laureate, called 'Enid.'"