serably unhappy hours, at all events,"
says Hermia Herrick. "You have been in magnificent spirits ever since
you came to Aghyohillbeg."

"You've learned it?" says Olga, staring at her with pretended surprise.
"The name, I mean. Well, you _are_ clever. It takes most people four
long weeks. Oh, yes, I am blissfully happy here. I _ought_ to be. It
would be the grossest ingratitude if I were otherwise, as all the men
have been good enough to fall in love with me, and that, of course, is
the principal thing."

At this the young man at her feet smiles openly and presses his face
unperceived against her gown; but Rossmoyne throws up his head and
glances with a coldly displeased expression into the vague distance.

"Have you been here long?" asks Monica, turning to her friend.

"_Very_ long," pettishly. Something--perhaps Rossmoyne--has annoyed the
capricious beauty.

"Only a fortnight," says Mrs. Herrick, briefly. "You _must_ know that."

"I don't judge time by days and weeks; it _seems_ long," says Mrs.
Bohun, "years,--an eternity almost!"

A sudden gloom appears to have fallen upon the group. Rossmoyne's dark
face grows darker still; the smile fades from Ronayne's face, a shadow
falls athwart his eyes.

"I think I like the country," says Monica, suddenly. "It is so calm, so
quiet, and there are moments when the very beauty of it brings tears to
my eyes."

"I love it too," says Ronayne, quickly, addressing her pointedly in a
friendly tone, although no introduction has been gone through between
them. "I wonder how any one who has once tasted the sweetness of it can
ever again long for the heat and turmoil of the town."

"Yes, for a time it is charming, all-sufficing," says Mrs. Bohun, "but
for what a _little_ time! Perhaps,--I am not sure,--but _perhaps_ I
should like to live for three months of every year in the country. After
that, I know I should begin to pine again for the smoke and smuts of my
town."

"If you are already wearied, I wonder you stay here," says Lord
Rossmoyne, sullenly.

"And I wonder what has happened to-day to your usually so charming
temper," returns she, laughingly uplifting her face to his, and letting
her eyes rest on him with almost insolent inquiry.

"Desmond says good temper is a mere matter of digestion," says some one
at this moment. Monica starts more at the name mentioned than at the
exceedingly worn-out words uttered. She glances at the speaker, and sees
he is a very ugly youn