are, Nina,' said Kate, 'you have stripped every leaf off my poor
ivy-geranium; there's nothing left of it but bare branches.'

'There goes the last handful,' said the other, as she threw them over the
parapet, some falling on Gorman as he leaned out. 'It was a bad habit I
learned from yourself, child. I remember when I came here, you used to do
this each night, like a religious rite.'

'I suppose they were the dried or withered leaves that I threw away,' said
Kate, with a half-irritation in her voice.

'No, they were not. They were oftentimes from your prettiest roses, and
as I watched you, I saw it was in no distraction or inadvertence you were
doing this, for you were generally silent and thoughtful some time before,
and there was even an air of sadness about you, as though a painful thought
was bringing its gloomy memories.'

'What an object of interest I have been to you without suspecting it,' said
Kate coldly.

'It is true,' said the other, in the same tone; 'they who make few
confidences suggest much ingenuity. If you had a meaning in this act and
told me what it was, it is more than likely I had forgotten all about it
ere now. You preferred secrecy, and you made me curious.'

'There was nothing to reward curiosity,' said she, in the same measured
tone; then, after a moment, she added, 'I'm sure I never sought to ascribe
some hidden motive to _you_. When _you_ left my plants leafless, I was
quite content to believe that you were mischievous without knowing it.'

'I read you differently,' said Nina. 'When _you_ do mischief you mean
mischief. Now I became so--so--what shall I call it, _intriguee_ about this
little "fetish" of yours, that I remember well the night you first left off
and never resumed it.'

'And when was that?' asked Kate carelessly.

'On a certain Friday, the night Miss O'Shea dined here last; was it not a
Friday?'

'Fridays, we fancy, are unlucky days,' said Kate, in a voice of easy
indifference.

'I wonder which are the lucky ones?' said Nina, sighing. 'They are
certainly not put down in the Irish almanac. By the way, is not this a
Friday?'

'Mr. O'Shea will not call it amongst his unlucky days,' said Kate
laughingly.

'I almost think I like your Austrian,' said the other.

'Only don't call him _my_ Austrian.'

'Well, he was yours till you threw him off. No, don't be angry: I am only
talking in that careless slang we all use when we mean nothing, just as
people employ counters i