mother, smiling faintly, and pressing the child closer to her. "She is a
cold little thing, is she not?"

"I suppose she inherits it," says Owen Kelly, without lifting his eyes
from the child's fair face.

Mrs. Herrick colors slightly.

"Will you let me get you some tea, Fay?" says Mr. Kelly, addressing the
child almost anxiously.

"No, thank you," says the fairy, sweetly but decidedly. "My mammy will
give me half hers. I do not like any other tea."

"I am not in favor to-day," says Kelly, drawing back and shrugging his
shoulders slightly, but looking distinctly disappointed. It may be the
child sees this, because she comes impulsively forward, and, standing on
tiptoe before him, holds her arms upwards towards his neck.

"I want to kiss you now," she says, solemnly, when he has taken her into
his embrace. "But no one else. I only want to kiss _you_ sometimes--and
_always_ mamma."

"I am content to be second where mamma is first. I am glad you place me
with her in your mind. I should like to be always with mamma," says
Kelly. He laughs a little, and kisses the child again, and places her
gently upon the ground, and then he glances at Hermia. But her face is
impassive as usual. No faintest tinge deepens the ordinary pallor of her
cheeks. She has the sugar tongs poised in the air, and is apparently
sunk in abstruse meditation.

"Now, I wonder who takes sugar and who doesn't," she says, wrinkling up
her pretty brows in profound thought. "I have been here a month, yet
cannot yet be sure. Mr. Kelly, you must call some one else to our
assistance to take round the sugar, as you can't do everything."

"I can do _nothing_," says Kelly, in a low tone, after which he turns
away and calls Brian Desmond to come to him.

CHAPTER XIX.

How Desmond asserts himself, and shows himself a better man than his
rival--And how a bunch of red roses causes a breach, and how a ring
heals it.

"Then it is decided," says Olga. "'The School for Scandal' first, and
tableaux to follow. Now for _them_. I suppose four altogether will be
quite sufficient. We must not try the patience of our poor audience past
endurance."

"It will be past that long before our tableaux begin," says Ulic
Ronayne, in a low tone. He is dressed in a tennis suit of white flannel,
and is looking particularly handsome.

Olga makes a pretty little _moue_, but no audible response.

"I have two arranged," she says, "but am distracted about three and