omething; let him feel you are his friend," he
says, in a low tone.

"Come a little farther from the fire, Ulic,--a little nearer to me,"
says Monica, in a tone of shy friendliness, "and I think you will be
more comfortable."

He is more than grateful, I think, though he says nothing only he moves
a good deal closer to her, and lays his head against her knee in a
brotherly fashion,--need I say unrebuked?

Something in this little scene sends the blood rushing with impatient
fervor through Olga's veins. But that she knows Monica well, and that
the girl is dear to her, she could have hated her heartily at this
moment, without waiting to analyze the motive for her dislike. As it is,
she gives the reins to her angry spirit, and lets it drive her where it
will. She laughs quite merrily, and says some pretty playful thing to
Lord Rossmoyne that all the world can hear,--and Ronayne, be assured,
the first of all.

Desmond, with a subdued touch of surprise in his eyes, turns to look at
her. But the night has darkened with sullen haste--tired, perhaps, of
the day's ill temper--and standing as he does within the magic circle of
the firelight, he finds a difficulty in conquering the gloom beyond.
This makes his gaze in her direction the more concentrated; and, indeed,
when he has separated her features from the mist of the falling night,
he still finds it impossible to pierce the impenetrable veil of
indifference that covers her every feature.

His gaze thus necessarily prolonged is distasteful to her.

"Brian, don't keep staring at the teapot in that mean fashion," she
says, playfully, yet with a latent sense of impatience in her tone. "It
is unworthy of you. Go up to Madam O'Connor _nobly_, cup in hand, and I
daresay--if you ask her prettily--she will grant me permission to give
you a cup of tea."

Desmond, recovering from his revery with a start accepts the situation
literally.

"Will you, Madam?" he says, meekly. "_Do._" His tone is of the most
abject. There is a perceptible trembling about his knee-joints. "Is
_this_ the 'air noble'?" he says to Olga, in an undertone. "Have I
caught it?"

"You'll catch it in a minute in real earnest, if you don't mend your
manners," says Madam, with a laugh. "Give him his tea, Olga, my dear,
though he doesn't deserve it."

"Sugar?" says Olga, laconically.

"Yes, please," mendaciously.

"Then you shan't have even one lump, if only to punish you for all your
misconduct."

"I t