e
got it upstairs in her room, now? After all,--though the idea is sweetly
pretty,--I think there might be certain places into which it would be
awkward to have even the whitest lamb trotting after one. Eh?"

"I suppose Miss Browne is rich enough to indulge in any vagaries that
may occur to her," says Bella Fitzgerald.

"There's nothing like money," says Olga, with a sigh; at which Lord
Rossmoyne looks hopeful, and young Ronayne despondent.

"Like leather, you mean," says Owen Kelly: "that's the real thing to get
hold of."

"Some people would do _anything_ for money," says Miss Fitzgerald, with
a spiteful glance in Olga's direction. "They would sell themselves for
it." Here she turns her cold eyes upon Ronayne, who is standing erect,
handsome, but unmistakably miserable.

"They could hardly sell themselves for a more profitable article," says
Olga, with a fine shrug of her soft shoulders.

"So _they_ think. Croesus, we know, was, and is, allpowerful."

"Oh, no," says Olga, with a little silvery laugh; "you forget my dear
Bella. Read it up again, and you will see that Croesus was once
conquered by Cyrus. What became of his power then?"

Her lashes cover her eyes for a moment, and when she lifts them again
they are fixed on Ronayne. By some coquettish art she gives him to
understand in this single glance that he is Cyrus, Lord Rossmoyne
Croesus. He can conquer the rich lord if he will.

"How idle you are, Mr. Ronayne!" she says aloud. "Come here directly and
help me. You know I cannot do without _your_ help." There is the most
delicate emphasis possible upon the pronoun. Obedient to her command, he
comes, as Rossmoyne, armed with the cups, crosses the hall to Hermia and
Miss Fitzgerald.

"Did your eyes speak true just now?" he asks, bending over her under
pretext of helping her with the cups.

"What is truth?" asks she, in turn, with a swift upward glance. "Who
knows aught of her? She lies buried in a deep well, does she not? Who
shall drag her forth?"

She smiles, yet in a somewhat constrained fashion, that assorts ill with
the inborn self-possession that as a rule characterizes her. She glances
at him hurriedly. How young and handsome and earnest he looks! How full
of tenderest entreaty! There is, too, a touch of melancholy in his dark
eyes that never came to the birth (she is fain to acknowledge to herself
with a pang of remorse) until that day when first they look on her.

He loves her,--that she knows