Desmond, with a sudden determination in his eyes. "I would not
have you vexed or made unhappy in any way. But that I shall see you
again--and _soon_--be sure."

"But----"

"I will listen to no 'buts:' it is too late for them. Though all the
world, though even you yourself, should forbid me your presence, I
should still contrive to meet you."

Here somebody addresses him, and he is obliged to turn and smile, and
put off his face the touch of earnest passion that has just illumined
it; while Monica stands silent, spellbound, trying to understand it all.

"Is it thus that all my countrymen make love?" she asks herself,
bewildered. At the very second meeting (she always, even to herself,
ignores that ignominious first) to declare in this masterful manner that
he _must_ and _will_ see her again!

It is rapid, rather violent wooing; but I do not think the girl
altogether dislikes it. She is a little frightened, perhaps, and
uncertain, but there is a sense of power about him that fascinates her
and tells her vaguely that faith and trust in him will never be
misplaced. She feels strangely nervous, yet she lifts her eyes to his,
and gazes at him long and bravely, and then the very faintest glimmer of
a smile, that is surely full of friendliness and confidence, if nothing
more, lights up her eyes and plays around her pensive mouth. A moment,
and the smile has vanished, but the remembrance of it lives with him
forever.

Yes, the wooing is rapid, and she is not won; but "she likes me," thinks
Desmond, with a touch of rapture he has never known before. "Certainly,
she _likes_ me; and--there are always time and hope."

"My dear Monica, it grows late," says Miss Priscilla at this moment.
"Say good-by to Madame O'Connor, and let us go."

"Oh, not a bit of it, now," says Madam O'Connor, hospitably in her rich,
broad brogue, inherited in all its purity, no doubt, from her kingly
ancestor. "You mustn't take her away yet: sure the day is young. Mr.
Ryde, why don't you get Miss Beresford to play a game with you? In my
time, a young fellow like you wouldn't wait to be told to make himself
agreeable to a pretty girl. There, go now, do! Have you brought your own
racket with you?"

"I left it at home," says Mr. Ryde. "Fact is," affectedly, "I didn't
think tennis was known over here. Didn't fancy you had a court in the
land."

This speech fires the blood of the O'Toole's last descendant.

Madam O'Connor uprears a haughty crest, an