tzgerald shows a faint disposition to sob, as they pass out of
sight. Madam O'Connor is consumed with laughter.

"I don't think I should trouble myself to open 'that poor young
Ronayne's' eyes, if I were you, Edith," she says, with tears of
suppressed amusement in her eyes.

"He is lost!" says Mrs. Fitzgerald, with a groan; but whether she means
to Bella or to decency never transpires.

CHAPTER XXIV.

How Madam O'Connor tells how lovers throve in the good old days when
she was young; and Brian Desmond thrives with his love in these our
days, when he and she are young.

The day is near; the darkest hour that presages the dawn has come, and
still every one is dancing, and talking, and laughing, and some are
alluring, by the aid of smiles and waving fans, the hearts of men.

Kit Beresford, in spite of her youth and her closely-cropped
head,--which, after all is adorable in many ways,--has secured, all to
her own bow, a young man from the Skillereen Barracks (a meagre town to
the west of Rossmoyne). He is a _very_ young, young man, and is by this
time quite _bon comarade_ with the sedate Kit, who is especially lenient
with his shortcomings, and treats him as though he were nearly as old as
herself.

Monica is dancing with Mr. Ryde. To do him justice, he dances very well;
but whether Monica is dissatisfied with him, or whether she is tenderly
regretful of the fact that at this moment she might just as well--or
rather better--be dancing with another, I cannot say; but certainly her
fair face is clothed with a pensive expression that heightens its beauty
in a considerable degree.

"Look at that girl of Priscilla Blake's," says Madam O'Connor, suddenly,
who is standing at the head of the room, surrounded, as usual, by young
men. "Look at her. Was there ever such a picture? She is like a martyr
at the stake. That intense expression suits her."

Brian Desmond flushes a little, and Kelly comes to the rescue.

"A martyr?" he says. "I don't think Ryde would be obliged to you if he
heard you. I should name him as the martyr, if I were you. Just see how
hopelessly silly--I mean, sentimental--he looks."

"Yet I think she fancies him," says Lord Rossmoyne, who is one of those
men who are altogether good, respectable, and dense.

"Nonsense!" says Madam O'Connor, indignantly. "What on earth would she
fancy that jackanapes for, when there are good men and true waiting for
her round every corner?"

As she says