r happiness is a different happiness,' Mrs. Scully answered.

Like a flowering tree, a luxuriant joy bloomed in the Marquis's heart;
in its shade and fragrance his thoughts lay supinely; and, a prey to
many floating and fanciful imaginings, he walked onwards through the
darkness. In the lowering skies he saw the fair face that had led him to
the verge on which he now stood.

'Was anybody as happy as he? And what did his happiness mean?' he asked
himself.

Shades flitted across yellow window-panes, and he remembered he had
received an invitation for this very ball.

Cats slunk through the area railings; policemen moved from their hiding
corners; a lover passed on with his dreams.

XXI

Mrs. Barton rarely took anyone into her confidence, and her plan for the
capture of the Marquis was locked within her breast. Not to her husband,
nor yet to Milord, did she think of going for advice. Her special
experience of life had taught her to trust none, to be self-reliant, and
never to give up hope. For as she often said, it is the last effort that
wins the battle. Mrs. Barton's knowledge of the world, when it came to
be analyzed, was only that of the courtesan--skin deep.

Two days after she received a note from the Marquis, saying he would be
glad to spend a week with them at Brookfield. She read it quietly,
slipped it into the pocket of the black silk that covered the unseen
feet, and glided out of the room. Every detail was clear to her. They
must leave Dublin to-morrow morning; they need not trouble about calling
on a pack of women, but they would have all their men friends to dinner.

Mr. Barton, when he was informed of these sudden determinations, was in
the act of rehearsing a song he was to sing the following day at a
concert.

'But, my dear,' he said, tightening one of the strings; 'the public will
be awfully disappointed.'

'Yes, my dear, yes; I am very sorry, but I have my reasons--serious
reasons; and in this world we must only do what's right.'

'Then in the next world we shall be able to do everything that's wrong,'
said Mr. Barton; and he threw back his blond locks with troubadour-like
waves of his lymphatic hand. 'I shall like the next world better than
this,' he added, and his wife and daughter laughed; for papa was
supposed to be very naughty.

'Olive, dear--'

'Oh, mamma, I wish you wouldn't call me Olive. I shall change my name.
Captain Talbot was chaffing me about it yesterday. Everybody