Ryde," with an arch glance, "you must promise not to lose your temper
over the _gaucheries_ of your Dolly Varden."

"Whose Dolly Varden?" asks Desmond, coming up at this instant laden with
cups of tea.

"Mr. Ryde's."

"He is to be Hugh to Miss Beresford's Dolly," says Ronayne.

"Yes, isn't it good of Monica? she has consented to take the part," says
Olga, who is really grateful to her for having helped her out of her
difficulty.

"_Have_ you?" says Desmond, turning upon Monica with dilated eyes.

"Yes. Is that tea for me?" returns she, calmly, with great
self-possession, seeing that sundry eyes are upon her.

"For you, or any one," replies he. Tone can convey far more meaning than
words. The words just now are correct enough, but the tone is uncivil to
the last degree. Monica, flushing slightly, takes a cup from him, and
Olga takes the second.

There is a short silence whilst they stir their tea, during which Madam
O'Connor's voice can be distinctly heard,--it generally _can_ above
every tumult. She is discoursing enthusiastically about some wonderful
tree in her orchard, literally borne down by fruit.

"You never saw such a sight!" she is saying,--"laden down to the ground.
The finest show of pears in the country. I was telling Williams he would
do well to prop it. But I suppose it will ruin the tree for the next two
years to come."

"What, the propping?" says Rossmoyne.

"No, the enormous produce, you silly boy!" says his hostess, with a
laugh.

Monica, who is growing restless beneath Desmond's angry regard, turns to
her nervously.

"I think I should like to see it," she says, softly.

"Allow me to take you to it," says Ryde, quickly, coming to her side.

"Miss Beresford is coming with _me_," interposes Desmond. His face is
pale, and his eyes flash ominously.

"That is for Miss Beresford to decide."

"She _has_ decided," says Desmond, growing even paler, but never
removing his eyes from his rival's. He is playing a dangerous game, but
even in the danger is ecstasy. And, as Monica continues silent, a great
joy fills his soul.

"But until"--begins the Englishman, doggedly--"I hear----"

"Mrs. Bohun's cup is causing her embarrassment. See to it," interrupts
Desmond, unemotionally. And then, turning to Monica, he says, "Come,"
coldly, but with such passionate entreaty in his eyes that she is borne
away by it, and goes with him submissively across the lawn, until she
has so far withdrawn herself fr