But I would not have you make yourselves unhappy," says Monica,
falteringly.

"Nay, my dear, it will be a pleasure, for _your_ sake."

Not for worlds, even to themselves, would these two old ladies
acknowledge that they are right glad of the chance that has come to them
of introducing so beautiful a niece to the gay world around them, and of
mingling, even in a subdued and decorous fashion, with the amusements
that for the last five years they have (most unwillingly, be it said,
but on the score of age) declined.

"I wonder who will be there," says Monica, in a fresher tone, striving
vainly to drown the hope that is taking possession of her, a hope that
connects itself with a certain blue-eyed, dark-haired young man, last
seen in boating flannels.

"Everybody," says Miss Priscilla,--"the entire country. Madam
O'Connor may not be--is not--there may be certain points about
her--that"--floundering hopelessly--"I mean"--with a rush--"there are
a few who object to her _manner_ but her birth is undeniable, and she
has a large fortune; you must know, my dear, her father was a direct
descendant of King O'Toole, and her husband the head of one of the
oldest families in Ireland."

"Is that the old woman who called here the day before yesterday?" asked
Terence, irreverently. They are all sitting in the drawing-room, Terence
being rather on the balcony perhaps.

"Yes--I regret you were not in to receive her. I should have liked you
to make her acquaintance, Monica, before going to Aghyohillbeg."

"Oh I saw her," says Terence, contemptuously, "she's got an eye like a
lance, and a man's figure. She drove herself, and held the reins like
this," throwing himself into position.

"If you are going out, Terence, you may as well go at once," says Miss
Priscilla, with dignity, pretending neither to hear nor see him.
Whereupon Terence gladly departs.

"Go on, auntie," says Monica, slipping down on a footstool close to Aunt
Penelope, and leaning both her arms across the old lady's knee. "Who
else will be there?"

"Yes, tell her everything, Priscilla," says Miss Penelope, smoothing the
girl's hair softly, and feeling a strange thrill of pleasure in her
heart as she notices the little confident gesture with which the girl
nestles close to her.

"Well, there will be her own guests, of course, I mean those staying
with her, for she always has her house full," says Miss Priscilla, after
a slight pause, being still somewhat ruffled by