"You mean that she really _fretted_?" asks Monica, still in the same
curious way, with her eyes fixed on her aunt. There is, indeed, so much
unstudied surprise in her whole manner as might have produced a
corresponding amount in the Misses Blake, had they noticed it.

"Yes, my dear, of course. Dear, dear, dear! what a sad thing it all was!
Well, now you understand all that it is needful you should, Monica,"
says Miss Penelope, with a glance at her sister, who really seems quite
overcome. "So we will say no more about it. Only you can see for
yourself how impossible it is for any of our blood to be on friendly
terms with a Desmond."

"They may not all be like _that_ Mr. Desmond," says Monica, timidly,
coloring to her brow.

"Yes, yes. Like father, like son; you know the old adage; and a nephew
is as close a relation almost. We can know no one at Coole."

"I would almost rather see you dead than intimate with one of the name,"
says Miss Priscilla, with sudden harshness.

"I don't think we told Monica about the other guests at Aghyohillbeg,"
says Miss Penelope, hastily, with the kindly intention of changing the
conversation. "A very pretty young woman came there about a week before
your arrival, child, and is to remain, I believe, for some time. She is
a widow, and young, and--by the bye, I wonder if she can be any relation
to your friends in the South of France."

"Why?"

"Her name is Bohun, and----"

"Not _Olga_ Bohun?" says Monica, springing to her feet. "A widow, you
say, and young. Oh! auntie, if she only _might_ be Olga!"

"Well, certainly she has a heathenish--I mean, a Russian--name like
that," says Miss Priscilla. "She is a very little woman, with merry
eyes, and she laughs always, and she has the prettiest, the most
courteous manners. Quite a relief I found her, after the inanities of
Bella Fitzgerald."

"She is even smaller than I am. Yes, and her eyes do laugh!" says
Monica, delight making her cheeks warm. "She is the prettiest thing. Ah!
how happy I shall be if I may see her sometimes!"

"You shall see her just as often as ever you and she wish," say the two
old maids in a breath, glad in the thought that they can make her home
at Moyne happy to her.

"I hope _you_ like her," says Monica, glancing from one to the other of
them.

"Yes. I thought her quite fascinating," says Miss Penelope. "Some people
say she is rather--rather _fast_, I believe is the word they use
nowadays," getting the word