t unperceived. So loud was the thunder, everybody was
thinking of dynamite, and it was some time before even the voluptuous
strains of Liddell's band could calm their inquietude. Nevertheless the
Chamberlain continued to shout:

'Lady Sarah Cullen, Lady Jane Cullen, Mrs. Scully, presented by Lady
Sarah Cullen.'

Then came a batch of people whom no one knew, and in the front of these
the aides-de-camp allowed Alice to pass on to His Excellency. She was
prettily dressed, dragging after her a train of white faille trimmed
with sprays of white heather and tulle, the petticoat being beautifully
arranged with folded draperies of crepe de Chine.

A number of ladies had collected in the farther ante-room, and, in
lines, they stood watching the effluent tide of satin and silk
discharging its volume into the spaces of Patrick's Hall.

XVIII

'I wish Alice would make haste, and not keep us waiting. I suppose she
has got behind a crowd. Here are the Scullys; let's hide, they don't
know a creature, and will hang on us.'

Olive and Mrs. Barton tried to slip out of sight, but they were too
late; and a moment after, looking immense in a train and bodice of Lyons
velvet, Mrs. Scully came up and accosted them.

'And how do you do, Mrs. Barton?' she said, with a desperate effort to
make herself agreeable;

'I must congratulate you. Everyone is admiring your dress; I assure you
your train looked perfectly regal.'

'I am glad you like it,' replied Mrs. Barton; 'but what do you think of
Olive? Do you like her dress?'

'Oh, Olive has no need of my praises. If I were not afraid of making her
too vain I would tell her that all Dublin is talking of her. Indeed, I
heard a gentleman say--a gentleman who, I believe, writes for the
papers--that she will be in the _World_ or _Truth_ next week as the
belle of the season. None of the other young ladies will have a chance
with her.'

'Oh, I don't know about that,' exclaimed Mrs. Barton, laughing merrily;
'haven't you got your Violet?--whom, by the way, you have transformed
into a beautiful daisy. It will be, perhaps, not the Rose nor the Olive
that will carry off the prize, but the daisy.'

Violet glanced sharply at Mrs. Barton, and there was hate in the glance;
for, although her mother did not, she understood well what was meant by
the allusion to the daisy, the humblest of the earth's flowers.

The appearance, however, of Lord Kilcarney brought the conversation to a
close; and