dances, then, so necessary to you?" with a swift upward glance.

"They are, at all events, the only ones I care for," returns he,
clumsily, but heartily. "All the others will lie in the scale with
duty."

"'Every subject's duty is the king's; but every subject's soul is his
own,'" quotes Monica, lightly. "Why dance unless you wish it?"

"Because my soul is _not_ my own," responds he, with a sigh. "I am bound
to dance with every undanceable woman here to-day, or they will go home
and revile me. You _ought_ to be sorry for me if you aren't."

"Well, I am," says Monica; "and so you shall have every waltz on the
programme."

With this she lets him take her in his arms again, and float away with
her to the strains of the waltz then playing, and far away from
Desmond's jealous ears.

"Well, I had no idea it was in her," says Mrs. Bohun, in a breathless
sort of manner, when Monica has quite vanished. "All that was meant for
you, you know; and how _well_ she did it!"

"But _why_ should it be meant for me? What have I done that she should
so ill use me?" says Desmond, also breathless. "And you speak of her as
if you admired her and she ought to be praised for her conduct when you
have just heard from my own lips how devotedly I am attached to her!"

"I cannot help admiring genius when I see it," says Olga, with a gay
laugh. "She made up her mind--naughty little thing!--to make you
miserable a minute ago, and--she succeeded. What can compare with
success! But in very truth, Brian," tapping his arm familiarly with her
fan (an action Monica notes from the other side of the room), "I would
see you a victor too, and in this cause. She is as worthy of you as you
of her, and a fig for one's cousins and sisters and aunts, when Cupid
leads the way."

She has thrown up her head, and is looking full of spirit, when young
Ronayne, approaching her, says, smiling,--

"This is our dance, I think, Mrs. Bohun?"

"Is it? So far so good!" She turns again to Brian:

"'Faint heart never won fair lady,'" she says, warningly.

"I cannot accuse myself of any feebleness of that sort," says Desmond,
gloomily. "As you see, it all rests with her."

"Perhaps she is afraid of the family feud," says Olga, laughing. "One
hears such a lot about this Blake-Desmond affair that I feel I could
take the gold medal if examined about it. There!--what nonsense! Go and
speak to her, and defy those dear old ladies at Moyne."

"You were talking about tha