pigram. Lord Rosshill sat opposite him; he was thin, melancholy,
aristocratic, silent, and boring. There was a captain who, since he had
left the army, had grown to the image of a butler, and an ashen-tinted
young man who wore his arm in a sling; and an old man, who looked like a
dirty and worn-out broom, and who put his arm round the backs of the
chairs. These and three A.D.C.'s made up the party. There was very
little talking, and what there was was generally confined to asking the
young ladies if they had been to the Castle, and if they liked dancing.

The Marquis was a constant, although an unwilling guest at all these
entertainments. He would fain have refused Mrs. Barton's hospitalities,
but so pressing was she that this seemed impossible. There were times
when he started at the postman's knock as at the sound of a Land
Leaguer's rifle. Too frequently his worst fears were realized. '_Mon
cher Marquis_, it will give us much pleasure if you will dine with us
to-morrow night at half-past seven.' 'Dear Mrs. Barton, I regret
extremely that I am engaged for to-morrow night.' An hour later, '_Mon
cher Marquis_, I am very sorry you cannot come to-morrow night, but
Thursday will suit us equally well.' What was to be done? A second
excuse would result only in a proposal to fix a day next week; better
accept and get it over. He must do this or send a rude message to the
effect that he was engaged for every day he intended to dine out that
season, and he lacked the moral courage to write such a letter. Mrs.
Barton's formula for receiving the Marquis never varied. If he arrived
early he found Olive waiting to receive him in the drawing-room. She was
always prepared with a buttonhole, which she insisted on arranging and
pinning into his coat. Then allusion was made to the forget-me-nots that
the bouquet was sure to contain; and laughing vacantly--for laughter
with Olive took the place of conversation--she fled through the rooms,
encouraging him to pursue her. During dinner attempts were made to
exchange a few words, but without much success. Nor was it until Olive
pelted him with flowers, and he replied by destroying another bouquet
and applying it to the same purpose, that much progress was made towards
intimacy. But this little scene was exceptional, and on all other
occasions Lord Kilcarney maintained an attitude of reserve.

Mrs. Barton was at her wits' end. Three days ago she had met him walking
in Grafton Street with Viol