o tottered beneath its enormous weight.
Then another batch of A.D.C.'s-in-Waiting, the ladies of the viceregal
family: their Excellencies' guests and the ladies in attendance--placed
according to their personal precedence--brought up the rear of the
procession.

'Doesn't real, actual life sometimes appear to you, Miss Barton, more
distorted and unreal than a dream? I know it does to me. The spectacle
we have just witnessed was a part of the ages that believed in the
godhead of Christ and the divine right of Kings; but it seems to me
strange that such barbarities should be permitted to loiter.'

'But what has Christianity to do with the procession that has just
passed?'

'Were it not for faith, do you think a mock court would be allowed to
promenade in that ludicrous fashion?'

'I'm not sure it is faith that enables them to reverence the sword of
State. Is it not rather that love of ceremonial inherent in us all--more
or less?'

'Perhaps you are right.'

The conversation drifted back to literature; they talked for ten
minutes, and then Alice suggested that it was time she should return to
Mrs. Barton. Patrick's Hall was still crowded, and champagne corks
exploded through the babbling of the voices. The squadron of distressed
damsels had not deserted their favourite corner, and they waited about
the pillars like cabs on a stand. At this hour a middle-aged married
doctor would be welcomed; all were desirous of being seen, if only for a
moment, on the arm of a man. Mrs. Barton's triumph was Caesarean. More
than half-a-dozen old lords and one young man listened to her bewitching
laugh, and were fed on the brown flashing gold of her eyes. Milord and
Rosshill had been pushed aside; and, apart, each sought to convince the
other that he was going to leave town by the evening mail. Well in view
of everyone, Olive had spent an hour with Lord Kilcarney. He had just
brought her back to Mrs. Barton. At a little distance the poor Scullys
stood waiting. They knew no one, even the Bartons had given them a very
cold shoulder. Mrs. Gould, in an old black velvet dress, wondered why
all the nice girls did not get married, and from time to time she
plaintively questioned the passers-by if they had seen May. Violet's
sharp face had grown sharper. She knew she could do something if she
only got a chance. But would she get a chance? The Ladies Cullen, their
plank-like shoulders bound in grey frise velvet and steel, were talking
to her.