I
The convent was situated on a hilltop, and through the green garden the white dresses of the schoolgirls fluttered like the snowy plumage of a hundred doves. Obeying a sudden impulse, a flock of little ones would race through a deluge of leaf-entangled rays towards a pet companion standing at the end of a gravel-walk examining the flower she has just picked, the sunlight glancing along her little white legs proudly and charmingly advanced. The elder girls in their longer skirts were more dignified, but when they caught sight of a favourite sister, they too ran forward, and then retreated timidly, as if afraid of committing an indiscretion.
 It was prize-day in the Convent of the Holy Child, and since early morning all had been busy preparing for the arrival of the Bishop. His throne had been set at one end of the school-hall, and at the other the carpenters had erected a stage for the performance of King Cophetua, a musical sketch written by Miss Alice Barton for the occasion.
 Alice Barton was what is commonly known as a plain girl. At home, during the holidays, she often heard that the dressmaker could not fit her; but though her shoulders were narrow and prim, her arms long and almost awkward, there was a character about the figure that commanded attention. Alice was now turned twenty; she was the eldest, the best-beloved, and the cleverest girl in the school. It was not, therefore, on account of any backwardness in her education that she had been kept so long out of society, but because Mrs. Barton thought that, as her two girls were so different in appearance, it would be well for them to come out together. Against this decision Alice said nothing, and, like a tall arum lily, she had grown in the convent from girl to womanhood. To her the little children ran to be comforted; and to walk with her in the garden was considered an honour and a pleasure that even the Reverend Mother was glad to participate in.
 Lady Cecilia Cullen sat next to Alice, and her high shoulders and long face and pathetic eyes drew attention to her shoulders — they were a little wry, the right seemingly higher than the left. Her eyes were on Alice, and it was plain that she wished the other girls away, and that her nature was delicate, sensitive, obscure, if not a little queer. At home her elder sisters complained that an ordinary look or gesture often shocked her, and so deeply that she would remain for hours sitting apart refusing all consolation; and it was true that a spot on the tablecloth or presence of one repellent to her was sufficient to extinguish a delight or an appetite.
 Violet Scully occupied the other end of the garden bench. She was very thin, but withal elegantly made. Her face was neat and delicate, and it was set with light blue eyes; and when she was not changing her place restlessly, or looking round as if she fancied someone was approaching, when she was still (which was seldom), a rigidity of feature and an almost complete want of bosom gave her the appearance of a convalescent boy.
 If May Gould, who stood at the back, her hand leaning affectionately on Alice’s shoulder, had been three inches taller, she would have been classed a fine figure, but her features were too massive for her height. Her hair was not of an inherited red. It was the shade of red that is only seen in the children of dark-haired parents. In great coils it rolled over the dimpled cream of her neck, and with the exception of Alice, May was the cleverest girl in the school. For public inspection she made large water-coloured drawings of Swiss scenery; for private view, pen-and-ink sketches of officers sitting in conservatories with young ladies. The former were admired by the nuns, the latter occasioned some discussion among a select few.
 Violet Scully and May Gould would appeal to different imaginations.
 Olive, Alice’s sister, was more beautiful than either, but there was danger that her corn-coloured hair, wound round a small shapely head, might fail to excite more than polite admiration. Her nose was finely chiselled, but it was high and aquiline, and though her eyes were well drawn and coloured, they lacked personal passion and conviction; but no flower could show more delicate tints than her face — rose tints fading into cream, cream rising into rose. Her ear was curved like a shell, her mouth was faint and weak as a rose, and her moods alternated between sudden discontent and sudden gaiety.
 ‘I don’t see, Alice, why you couldn’t have made King Cophetua marry the Princess. Whoever heard of a King marrying a beggar-maid? Besides, I hear that lots of people are going to be present, and to be jilted before them all isn’t very nice. I am sure mamma wouldn’t like it.’
 ‘But you are not jilted, my dear Olive. You don’t like the King, and you show your nobleness of mind by refusing him.’
 ‘I don’t see that. Whoever refused a King?’
 ‘Well, what do you want?’ exclaimed May. ‘I never saw anyone so selfish in all my life; you wouldn’t be satisfied unless you played the whole piece by yourself.’
 Olive would probably have made a petulant and passionate reply, but at that moment visitors were coming up the drive.
 ‘It’s papa,’ cried Olive.
 ‘And he is with mamma,’ said Violet; and she tripped after Olive.
 Mr. Barton, a tall, handsome man, seemed possessed of all the beauty of a cameo, and Olive had inherited his high aquiline nose and the moulding of his romantic forehead; and his colour, too. He wore a flowing beard, and his hair and beard were the colour of pale cafe-au-lait. Giving a hand to each daughter, he said:
 ‘Here is learning and here is beauty. Could a father desire more? And you, Violet, and you, May, are about to break into womanhood. I used to kiss you in old times, but I suppose you are too big now. How strange — how strange! There you are, a row of brunettes and blondes, who before many days are over will be charming the hearts of all the young men in Galway. I suppose it was in talking of such things that you spent the morning?’
 ‘Our young charges have been, I assure you, very busy all the morning. We are not as idle as you think, Mr. Barton,’ said the nun in a tone of voice that showed that she thought Mr. Barton’s remark ill-considered. ‘We have been arranging the stage for the representation of a little play that your daughter Alice composed.’
 ‘Oh yes, I know; she wrote to me about it. King Cophetua is the name, isn’t it? I am very curious indeed, for I have set Tennyson’s ballad to music myself. I sing it to the guitar, and if life were not so hurried I should have sent it to you. However — however, we are all going home to-morrow. I have promised to take charge of Cecilia, and Mrs. Scully is going to look after May.’
 ‘Oh, how nice! Oh, how jolly that will be!’ Olive cried; and, catching Violet by the hands, she romped with her for glee.
 But the nun, taking advantage of this break in the conversation, said:
 ‘Come, now, young ladies, it is after two o’clock; we shall never be ready in time if you don’t make haste — and it won’t do to keep the Bishop waiting.’ Like a hen gathering her chickens, the Sister hurried away with Violet, Olive, and May.
 ‘How happy they seem in this beautiful retreat!’ said Mrs. Scully, drawing her black lace shawl about her grey-silk shoulders. ‘How little they know of the troubles of the world! I am afraid it would be hard to persuade them to leave their convent if they knew the trials that await them.’
 ‘We cannot escape our trials,’ a priest said, who had just joined the group; ‘they are given to us that we may overcome them.’
 ‘I suppose so, indeed,’ said Mrs. Scully; and, trying to find consolation in the remark, she sighed. Another priest, as if fearing further religious shop from his fellow-worker, informed Mr. Barton, in a cheerful tone of voice, that he had heard he was a great painter.
 ‘I don’t know — I don’t know,’ replied Mr. Barton; ‘painting is, after all, only dreaming. I should like to be put at the head of an army, but when I am seized with an idea I have to rush to put it down.’
 Finding no appropriate answer to these somewhat erratic remarks, the priest joined in a discussion that had been started concerning the action taken by the Church during the present agrarian agitation. Mr. Barton, who was weary of the subject, stepped aside, and, sitting on one of the terrace benches between Cecilia and Alice, he feasted his eyes on the colour-changes that came over the sea, and in long-drawn-out and disconnected phrases explained his views on nature and art until the bell was rung for the children to assemble in the school-hall.

II
It was a large room with six windows; these had been covered over with red cloth, and the wall opposite was decorated with plates, flowers, and wreaths woven out of branches of ilex and holly.
 Chairs for the visitors had been arranged in a semicircle around the Bishop’s throne — a great square chair approached by steps, and rendered still more imposing by the canopy, whose voluminous folds fell on either side like those of a corpulent woman’s dress. Opposite was the stage. The footlights were turned down, but the blue mountains and brown palm-trees of the drop-curtain, painted by one of the nuns, loomed through the red obscurity of the room. Benches had been set along the walls. Between them a strip of carpet, worked with roses and lilies, down which the girls advanced when called to receive their prizes, stretched its blue and slender length.
 ‘His Grace is coming!’ a nun cried, running in, and instantly the babbling of voices ceased, and four girls hastened to the pianos placed on either side of the stage, two left-hands struck a series of chords in the bass, the treble notes replied, and, to the gallant measure of a French polka, a stately prelate entered, smiling benediction as he advanced, the soft clapping of feminine palms drowning, for a moment, the slangy strains of the polka.
 When the Bishop was seated on his high throne, the back of which extended some feet above his head, and as soon as the crowd of visitors had been accommodated with chairs around him, a nun made her way through the room, seeking anxiously among the girls. She carried in her hand a basket filled with programmes, all rolled and neatly tied with pieces of different coloured ribbon. These she distributed to the ten tiniest little children she could find, and, advancing five from either side, they formed in a line and curtsied to the Bishop. One little dot, whose hair hung about her head like a golden mist, nearly lost her balance; she was, however, saved from falling by a companion, and then, like a group of kittens, they tripped down the strip of blue carpet and handed the programmes to the guests, who leaned forward as if anxious to touch their hands, to stroke their shining hair.
 The play was now ready to begin, and Alice felt she was going from hot to cold, for when the announcement printed on the programme, that she was the author of the comedy of King Cophetua had been read, all eyes were fixed upon her; the Bishop, after eyeing her intently, bent towards the Reverend Mother and whispered to her. Cecilia clasped Alice’s hand and said: ‘You must not be afraid, dear; I know it will be all right.’
 And the little play was as charming as it was guileless. The old legend had been arranged — as might have been expected from a schoolgirl — simply and unaffectedly. The scene opened in a room in the palace of the King, and when a chorus, supposed to be sung by the townspeople, was over, a Minister entered hurriedly. The little children uttered a cry of delight; they did not recognize their companion in her strange disguise. A large wig, with brown curls hanging over the shoulders, almost hid the face, that had been made to look quite aged by a few clever touches of the pencil about the eyes and mouth. She was dressed in a long garment, something between an ulster and a dressing-gown. It fell just below her knees, for it had been decided by the Reverend Mother that it were better that there should be a slight display of ankles than the least suspicion of trousers. The subject was a delicate one, and for some weeks past a look of alarm had not left the face of the nun in charge of the wardrobe. But these considerations only amused the girls, and now, delighted at the novelty of her garments, the Minister strutted about the stage complaining of the temper of the Dowager Queen. ‘Who could help it if the King wouldn’t marry? Who could make him leave his poetry and music for a pretty face if he didn’t care to do so? He had already refused blue eyes, black eyes, brown eyes. However, the new Princess was a very beautiful person, and ought, all things considered, to be accepted by the King. She must be passing through the city at the moment.’
<6>On this the Queen entered. The first words she spoke were inaudible, but, gathering courage, she trailed her white satin, with its large brocaded pattern, in true queenly fashion, and questioned the Minister as to his opinion of the looks of the new Princess. But she gave no point to her words. The scene was, fortunately, a short one, and no sooner had they disappeared than a young man entered. He held a lute in his left hand, and with his right he twanged the strings idly. He was King Cophetua, and many times during rehearsal Alice had warned May that her reading of the character was not right; but May did not seem able to accommodate herself to the author’s view of the character, and, after a few minutes, fell back into her old swagger; and now, excited by the presence of an audience, by the footlights, by the long coat under which she knew her large, well-shaped legs could be seen, she forgot her promises, and strolled about like a man, as she had seen young Scully saunter about the stable-yard at home. She looked, no doubt, very handsome, and, conscious of the fact, she addressed her speeches to a group of young men, who, for no ostensible reason except to get as far away as possible from the Bishop, had crowded into the left-hand corner of the hall.
 And so great was May’s misreading of the character, that Alice could hardly realize that she was listening to her own play. Instead of speaking the sentence, ‘My dear mother, I could not marry anyone I did not love; besides, am I not already wedded to music and poetry?’ slowly, dreamily, May emphasized the words so jauntily, that they seemed to be poetic equivalents for wine and tobacco. There was no doubt that things were going too far; the Reverend Mother frowned, and shifted her position in her chair uneasily; the Bishop crossed his legs and took snuff methodically.
 But at this moment the attention of the audience was diverted by the entrance of the Princess. May’s misbehaviour was forgotten, and a murmur of admiration rose through the red twilight. Dressed in a tight-fitting gown of pale blue, opening in front, and finishing in a train held up by the smallest child in the school, Olive moved across the stage like a beautiful bird. Taking a wreath of white roses from her hair, she presented them to the King. He had then to kiss her hand, and lead her to a chair. In the scene that followed, Alice had striven to be intensely pathetic. She had intended that the King, by a series of kindly put questions, should gradually win the Princess’s confidence, and induce her to tell the truth — that her affections had already been won by a knight at her father’s Court; that she could love none other.

 KING. But if this knight did not exist; if you had never seen him, you would, I suppose, have accepted my hand?
 PRINCESS. You will not be offended if I tell you the truth?
 KING. No; my word on it.
 PRINCESS. I could never have listened to your love.
 KING (rising hastily). Am I then so ugly, so horrible, so vile, that even if your heart were not engaged elsewhere you could not have listened to me?
 PRINCESS. You are neither horrible nor vile, King Cophetua; but again promise me secrecy, and I will tell you the whole truth.
 KING. I promise.
 PRINCESS. You are loved by a maiden far more beautiful than I; she is dying of love for your sake! She has suffered much for her love; she is suffering still.
 KING. Who is this maiden?
 PRINCESS. Ah! She is but a beggar-maid; she lives on charity, the songs she sings, and the flowers she sells in the streets. And now she is poorer than ever, for your royal mother has caused her to be driven out of the city.

Here the King weeps — he is supposed to be deeply touched by the Princess’s account of the wrongs done to the beggar-maid — and it is finally arranged between him and the Princess that they shall pretend to have come to some violent misunderstanding, and that, in their war of words, they shall insult each other’s parents so grossly that all possibilities of a marriage will be for ever at an end. Throwing aside a chair so as to bring the Queen within ear-shot, the King declares that his royal neighbour is an old dunce, and that there is not enough money in his treasury to pay the Court boot-maker; the Princess retaliates by saying that the royal mother of the crowned head she is addressing is an old cat, who paints her face and beats her maids-of-honour.
 The play that up to this point had been considered a little tedious now engaged the attention of the audience, and when the Queen entered she was greeted with roars of laughter. The applause was deafening. Olive played her part better than had been expected, and all the white frocks trembled with excitement. The youths in the left-hand corner craned their heads forward so as not to lose a syllable of what was coming; the Bishop recrossed his legs in a manner that betokened his entire satisfaction; and, delighted, the mammas and papas whispered together. But the faces of the nuns betrayed the anxiety they felt. Inquiring glances passed beneath the black hoods; all the sleek faces grew alive and alarmed. May was now alone on the stage, and there was no saying what indiscretion she might not be guilty of.
 The Reverend Mother, however, had anticipated the danger of the scene, and had sent round word to the nun in charge of the back of the stage to tell Miss Gould that she was to set the crown straight on her head, and to take her hands out of her pockets. The effect of receiving such instructions from the wings was that May forgot one-half her words, and spoke the other half so incorrectly that the passage Alice had counted on so much — ‘At last, thank Heaven, that tiresome trouble is over, and I am free to return to music and poetry’ — was rendered into nonsense, and the attention of the audience lost. Nor were matters set straight until a high soprano voice was heard singing:

“Buy, buy, who will buy roses of me?
Roses to weave in your hair.
A penny, only a penny for three,
Roses a queen might wear!
Roses! I gathered them far away
In gardens, white and red.
Roses! Make presents of roses to-day
And help me to earn my bread.”

 The King divined that this must be the ballad-singer — the beggar-maid who loved him, who, by some secret emissaries of the Queen, had been driven away from the city, homeless and outcast; and, snatching his lute from the wall, he sang a few plaintive verses in response. The strain was instantly taken up, and then, on the current of a plain religious melody, the two voices were united, and, as two perfumes, they seemed to blend and become one.
 Alice would have preferred something less ethereal, for the exigencies of the situation demanded that the King should get out of the window and claim the hand of the beggar-maid in the public street. But the nun who had composed the music could not be brought to see this, and, after a comic scene between the Queen and the Chancellor, the King, followed by his Court and suite, entered, leading the beggar-maid by the hand. In a short speech he told how her sweetness, her devotion, and, above all, her beautiful voice, had won his heart, and that he intended to make her his Queen. A back cloth went up, and it disclosed a double throne, and as the young bride ascended the steps to take her place by the side of her royal husband, a joyful chorus was sung, in which allusion was made to a long reign and happy days.
 Everyone was enchanted but Alice, who had wished to show how a man, in the trouble and bitterness of life, must yearn for the consoling sympathy of a woman, and how he may find the dove his heart is sighing for in the lowliest bracken; and, having found her, and having recognized that she is the one, he should place her in his bosom, confident that her plumes are as fair and immaculate as those that glitter in the sunlight about the steps and terraces of the palace. Instead of this, she had seen a King who seemed to regard life as a sensual gratification; and a beggar-maid, who looked upon her lover, not timidly, as a new-born flower upon the sun, but as a clever huckstress at a customer who had bought her goods at her valuing. But the audience did not see below the surface, and, in answer to clapping of hands and cries of Encore, the curtain was raised once more, and King Cophetua, seated on his throne by the side of his beggar-maid, was shown to them again.
 The excitement did not begin to calm until the tableaux vivants were ready. For, notwithstanding the worldliness of the day, it was thought that Heaven should not be forgotten. The convent being that of the Holy Child, something illustrative of the birth of Christ naturally suggested itself. No more touching or edifying subject than that of the Annunciation could be found. Violet’s thin, elegant face seemed representative of an intelligent virginity, and in a long, white dress she knelt at the prie-dieu. Olive, with a pair of wings obtained from the local theatre, and her hair, blonde as an August harvesting, lying along her back, took the part of the Angel. She wore a star on her forehead, and after an interval that allowed the company to recover their composure, and the carpenter to prepare the stage, the curtain was again raised. This time the scene was a stable. At the back, in the right-hand corner, there was a manger to which was attached a stuffed donkey; Violet sat on a low stool and held the new-born Divinity in her arms; May, who for the part of Joseph had been permitted to wear a false beard, held a staff, and tried to assume the facial expression of a man who had just been blessed with a son. In the foreground knelt the three wise men from the East; with outstretched hands they held forth their offerings of frankincense and myrrh. The picture of the world’s Redemption was depicted with such taste that a murmur of pious admiration sighed throughout the hall.
 Soon after a distribution of prizes began, and when the different awards had been distributed, and the Bishop had made a speech, there was benediction in the convent-church.

III
‘And to think,’ said Alice, ‘that this is the very last evening we shall ever pass here!’
 ‘I don’t see why you should be so very sorry for that,’ replied May; ‘I should have thought that you must have had enough of the place. Why, you have been here nearly ten years! I never would have consented to remain so long as that.’
 ‘I didn’t mind; we have been very happy here, and to say good-bye, and for ever, to friends we have known so long, and who have been so good to us, seems very sad — at least, it does to me.’
 ‘It is all very well for you,’ said Olive; ‘I dare say you have been happy here, you have always been the petted and spoilt child of the school. Nothing was ever too good for Alice; no matter who was wrong or what was done, Alice was sure to be right.’
 ‘I never knew anyone so unreasonable,’ said Cecilia. ‘You grumble at everything, and you are always dying of jealousy of your sister.’
 ‘That’s not true, and you haven’t much to talk of; after beating your brains out you only just got the prize for composition. Besides, if you like the convent as much as I dare say you do, although you aren’t a Catholic, you had better stop here with my sister.’
 ‘Oh, Olive! how can you speak to Cecilia in that horrid way? I am ashamed of you.’
 ‘So you are going to turn against me, Alice; but that’s your way. I shan’t stay here.’
 The retreating figure of the young girl stood out in beautiful distinctness in the pale light; behind her the soft evening swept the sea, effacing with azure the brown sails of the fishing-boats; in front of her the dresses of the girls flitted white through the sombre green of the garden.
 ‘I am sorry,’ said Cecilia, ‘you spoke to her. She is put out because she didn’t get a prize, and Sister Agnes told her that she nearly spoilt the play by the stupid way she played the Princess.’
<9>’She will find that that temper of hers will stand in her way if she doesn’t learn to control it,’ Violet said; ‘but, now she is gone, tell me, Alice, how do you think she played her part? As far as I can judge she didn’t seem to put any life into it. You meant the Princess to be a sharp, cunning woman of the world, didn’t you?’
 ‘No, not exactly; but I agree with you that Olive didn’t put life into it.’
 ‘Well, anyhow, the play was a great success, and you got, dear Alice, the handsomest prize that has ever been given in the school.’
 ‘And how do you think I did the King? Did I make him look like a man? I tried to walk just as Fred Scully does when he goes down to the stables.’
 ‘You did the part very well, May; but I think I should like him to have been more sentimental.’
 ‘I don’t think men are sentimental — at least, not as you think they are. I tried to copy Fred Scully.’
 ‘My part was a mere nothing. You must write me a something, Alice, one of these days — a coquettish girl, you know, who could twist a man round her fingers. A lot of bavardage in it.’
 ‘I suppose you’ll never be able to speak English again, now you’ve got the prize for French conversation.’
 ‘Sour grapes! You would like to have got it yourself. I worked hard for it. I was determined to get it, for ma says it is of great advantage in society for a girl to speak French well.’
 ‘Jealous! I should like to know why I should be jealous. Of what? I got all I tried for. Besides, the truth about your French prize is that you may consider yourself very fortunate, for if’ (she mentioned the name of one of her schoolfellows) ‘hadn’t been so shy and timid, you’d have come off second best.’
 The rudeness of this retort drew a sharp answer from Violet; and then, in turn, but more often simultaneously, the girls discussed the justice of the distribution. The names of an infinite number of girls were mentioned; but when, in the babbling flow of convent-gossip, a favourite nun was spoken of, one of the chatterers would sigh, and for a moment be silent.
 The violet waters of the bay had darkened, and, like the separating banners of a homeward-moving procession, the colours of the sky went east and west. The girdle of rubies had melted, had become the pale red lining of a falling mantle; the large spaces of gold grew dim; orange and yellow streamers blended; lilac and blue pennons faded to deep greys; dark hoods and dark veils were drawn closer; purple was gathered like garments about the loins; the night fell, and the sky, now decorated with a crescent moon and a few stars, was filled with stillness and adoration. The day’s death was exquisite, even human; and as she gazed on the beautiful corpse lowered amid the fumes of a thousand censers into an under-world, even Violet’s egotism began to dream.
 ‘The evening is lovely. I am glad; it is the last we shall pass here,’ said the girl pensively, ‘and all good-byes are sad.’
 ‘Yes, we have been happy,’ said May, ‘and I too am sorry to leave; but then we couldn’t spend our lives here. There are plenty of things to be done at home; and I suppose we shall all get married one of these days? And there will be balls and parties before we get married. I don’t think that I’d care to get married all at once. Would you, Violet?’
 ‘I don’t know. Perhaps not, unless it was to someone very grand indeed.’
 ‘Oh, would you do that? I don’t think I could marry a man unless I loved him,’ said May.
 ‘Yes, but you might love someone who was very grand as well as someone who wasn’t.’
 ‘That’s true enough; but then — ‘ and May stopped, striving to readjust her ideas, which Violet’s remark had suddenly disarranged. After a pause she said:
 ‘But does your mother intend to bring you to Dublin for the season? Are you going to be presented this year?’
 ‘I hope so. Mamma said I should be, last vacation.’
 ‘I shall take good care that I am. The best part of the hunting will be over, and I wouldn’t miss the Castle balls for anything. Do you like officers?’
 The crudity of the question startled Alice, and it was with difficulty she answered she didn’t know — that she had not thought about the matter.
 May and Violet continued the conversation; and over the lingering waste of yellow, all that remained to tell where the sun had set, the night fell like a heavy, blinding dust, sadly and regretfully, as the last handful of earth thrown upon a young girl’s grave.

IV
In the tiny cornfields the reapers rose from their work to watch the carriage. Mr. Barton commented on the disturbed state of the country. Olive asked if Mr. Parnell was good-looking. A railway-bridge was passed and a pine-wood aglow with the sunset, and a footman stepped down from the box to open a swinging iron gate.
 This was Brookfield. Sheep grazed on the lawn, at the end of which, beneath some chestnut-trees, was the house. It had been built by the late Mr. Barton out of a farmhouse, but the present man, having travelled in Italy and been attracted by the picturesque, had built a verandah; and for the same reason had insisted on calling his daughter Olive.
 ‘Oh there, mamma!’ cried Olive, looking out of the carriage window; and the two girls watched their mother, a pretty woman of forty, coming across the greensward to meet them.
 She moved over the greensward in a skirt that seemed a little too long — a black silk skirt trimmed with jet. As she came forward her daughters noticed that their mother dyed her hair in places where it might be suspected of turning grey. It was parted in the middle and she wore it drawn back over her ears and slightly puffed on either side in accordance with the fashion that had come in with the Empress Eugenie. Even in a photograph she was like a last-century beauty sketched by Romney in pastel — brown, languid, almond-shaped eyes, a thin figure a little bent. Even in youth it had probably resembled Alice’s rather than Olive’s, but neither had inherited her mother’s hands — the most beautiful hands ever seen — and while they trifled with the newly bought foulards a warbling voice inquired if Olive was sure she was not tired.
 ‘Five hours in the train! And you, Alice? You must be starving, my dear, and I’m afraid the saffron buns are cold. Milord brought us over such a large packet to-day. We must have some heated up. They won’t be a minute.’
 ‘Oh, mamma, I assure you I am not in the least hungry!’ cried Olive.
 ‘La beauté n’a jamais faim, elle se nourrit d’elle même,’ replied Lord Dungory, who had just returned from the pleasure-ground whither he had gone for a little walk with Arthur.
 ‘You will find Milord the same as ever — toujours galant; always thinking of la beauté, et les femmes.’
 Lord Dungory was the kind of man that is often seen with the Mrs. Barton type of woman. An elderly beau verging on the sixties, who, like Mrs. Barton, suggested a period. His period was very early Victorian, but he no longer wore a silk hat in the country. A high silk hat in Galway would have called attention to his age, so the difficulty of costume was ingeniously compromised by a tall felt, a cross between a pot and a chimney-pot. For collars, a balance had been struck between the jaw-scrapers of old time and the nearest modern equivalent; and in the tying of the large cravat there was a reminiscence, but nothing more, of the past generation.
 He had modelled himself, consciously or unconsciously, on Lord Palmerston, and in the course of conversation one gathered that he was on terms of intimacy with the chiefs of the Liberal party, such as Lord Granville and Lord Hartington, and if the listener was credited with any erudition, allusion was made to the most celebrated artists and authors, and to their works. There was a celebrated Boucher in Dungory Castle, which Milord, it was hinted, had bought for some very small sum many years ago on the Continent; there was also a cabinet by Buhl and a statue supposed to be a Jean Gougon, and the proofs of their authenticity were sometimes spoken of after a set dinner-party. His speech was urbane, and, on all questions of taste, Lord Dungory’s opinion was eagerly sought for. He gave a tone to the ideas put forward in the surrounding country houses, and it was through him that Mr. Barton held the title of a genius born out of due time. If Arthur, he said, had lived two centuries ago, when the gift of imagination was considered indispensable in the artist, he would have achieved high distinction. His subjects — The Bridal of Triermain and Julius Cæsar overturning the Altars of the Druids — would have been envied, perhaps stolen, by the Venetian painters. And this tribute to Arthur’s genius, so generously expressed, enabled him to maintain the amenities of his life at Brookfield. He never forgot to knock at Arthur’s studio-door, and the moment his eyes fell on a new composition, he spoke of it with respect; and he never failed to allude to it at lunch. He lunched at Brookfield every day. At half-past one his carriage was at the door. In the afternoons he went out to drive with Mrs. Barton or sat in the drawing-room with her. Four times in the week he remained to dinner, and did not return home until close on midnight.
 Whether he ever made any return to Mrs. Barton for her hospitalities, and, if so, in what form he repaid his obligations to her, was, when friends drew together, a favourite topic of conversation in the county of Galway. It had been remarked that the Bartons never dined at Dungory Castle except on state occasions; and it was well-known that the Ladies Cullen hated Mrs. Barton with a hatred as venomous as the poison hid in the fangs of adders.
 But Lord Dungory knew how to charm his tame snakes. For fortune they had but five thousand pounds each, and, although freedom and a London lodging were often dreamed of, the flesh-pots of Dungory Castle continued to be purchased at the price of smiles and civil words exchanged with Mrs. Barton. Besides, as they grew old and ugly, the Ladies Cullen had developed an inordinate passion for the conversion of souls. They had started a school of their own in opposition to the National school, which was under the direction of the priest, and to persuade the peasants to read the Bible and to eat bacon on Friday, were good works that could not be undertaken without funds; and these were obtained, it was said, by the visits of the Ladies Cullen to Brookfield.
 Mrs. Gould declared she could estimate to a fraction the prosperity of Protestantism in the parish by the bows these ladies exchanged with Mrs. Barton when their carriages crossed on the roads.
 ‘Here are the saffron buns at last, my dear children;’ and Mrs. Barton pressed them upon her girls, saying that Milord had brought them from Dungory Castle especially for them. ‘Take a bottom piece, Olive, and Alice, you really must... Well, if you won’t eat, tell Milord about your play of King Cophetua and the beggar-maid. Arthur, tell me, how did you like the play, and how did the nuns like it? To think of my daughter, so prim and demure, writing a play, and on such a subject.’
 ‘But, mamma, what is there odd in the subject? We all know the old ballad.’
 ‘Yes, we all know the ballad,’ Arthur answered; ‘I sing stanzas of it to the guitar myself.’ He began to chant to himself, and Mrs. Barton listened, her face slanted in the pose of the picture of Lady Hamilton; and Milord rejoiced in the interlude, for it gave him opportunity to meditate. Anna (Mrs. Barton) seemed to him more charming and attractive than he had ever seen her, as she sat in the quiet shadow of the verandah: beyond the verandah, behind her, the autumn sunshine fell across the shelving meadows. A quiet harmony reigned over Brookfield. The rooks came flapping home through the sunlight, and when Arthur had ceased humming Mrs. Barton said:
 ‘And now, my dear children, if you have finished your tea, come, and I will show you your room.’
 She did not leave the verandah, however, without paying a pretty compliment to Milord, one that set him thinking how miserable his life would have been with his three disagreeable daughters if he had not fallen in with this enchantment. He remembered that it had lasted for nearly twenty years, and it was as potent as ever. In what did it consist, he asked himself. He sometimes thought her laughter too abundant, sometimes it verged on merriment. He did not like to think of Anna as a merry woman; he preferred to think that wherever she went she brought happiness with her. He had known her sad, but never melancholy, for she was never without a smile even when she was melancholy.
 Awakening from his reverie he drew his chair closer to Arthur’s, and, with a certain parade of interest, asked him if he had been to the Academy.
 ‘Did you see anything, Arthur, that in design approached your picture of Julius Cæsar Overturning the Altars of the Druids?’
 ‘There were some beautiful bits of painting there,’ replied Arthur, whose modesty forbade him to answer the question directly. ‘I saw some lovely landscapes, and there were some babies’ frocks,’ he added satirically. ‘In one of these pictures I saw a rattle painted to perfection.’
 ‘Ah, yes, yes! You don’t like the pettiness of family feeling dragged into art; but if you only condescend to take a little more notice of the craft — the craft is, after all — ’
 ‘I am carried along too rapidly by my feelings. I feel that I must get my idea on canvas. But when I was in London I saw such a lovely woman — one of the most exquisite creatures possible to imagine! Oh, so sweet, and so feminine! I have it all in my head. I shall do something like her to-morrow.’
 Here he began to sketch with his stick in the dust, and from his face it might be judged he was satisfied with the invisible result. At last he said:
 ‘You needn’t say anything about it, but she sent me some songs, with accompaniments written for the guitar. You shall hear some of the songs to-night... . Ah, there is the dinner-bell!’
 Olive was placed next to Milord, and the compliments paid to her by the old courtier delighted her. She pretended to understand when he said: ‘La femme est comme une ombre: si vous la suives, elle vous fuit; si vous fuyez, elle vous poursuit.’ A little later the champagne she had drunk set her laughing hysterically, and she begged him to translate (he had just whispered to her mother, ‘L’amour est la conscience du plaisir donné et reçu, la certitude de donner et de recevoir’); and he would have complied with her request, but Mrs. Barton forbade him. Alice, who had understood, found herself obliged to say that she had not understood, which little fib begot a little annoyance in her against her mother; and Milord, as if he thought that he had been guilty of a slight indiscretion, said, addressing himself to both girls: ‘Gardez bien vos illusions, mon enfant, car les illusions sont le miroir de l’amour.’
 ‘Ah! mais il ne faut pas couvrir trop l’abîme avec des fleurs,’ said Mrs. Barton, as a sailor from his point of vantage might cry, ‘Rocks ahead!’
 Arthur only joined occasionally in the conversation; he gazed long and ardently on his daughter, and then sketched with his thumb-nail on the cloth, and when they arose from the table, Mrs. Barton said:
 ‘Now, now, I am not going to allow you gentlemen to spend any more time over your wine. This is our first evening together; come into the drawing-room with us, and we shall have some music.’
 Like most men of an unevenly balanced mind, Arthur loved an eccentric costume, and soon after he appeared in a long-tasselled cap and a strangely coloured smoking jacket; he wore a pair of high-heeled brocaded slippers, and, twanging a guitar, hummed to himself plaintively. Then, when he thought he had been sufficiently admired, he sang A che la morte, Il Balen, and several other Italian airs, in which frequent allusion was made to the inconstancy of woman’s and the truth of man’s affection. At every pause in the music these sentiments were laughingly contested by Mrs. Barton. She appealed to Milord. He never had had anything to complain of. Was it not well known that the poor woman had been only too true to him? Finally, it was arranged there should be a little dancing.
 As Mrs. Barton said, it was of great importance to know if Olive knew the right step, and who could put her up to all the latest fashions as well as Milord? The old gentleman replied in French, and settled his waistcoat, fearing the garment was doing him an injustice.
 ‘But who is to play?’ asked the poetical-looking Arthur, who, on the highest point of the sofa, hummed and tuned his guitar after true troubadour fashion.
 ‘Alice will play us a waltz,’ said Mrs. Barton winningly.
 ‘Oh yes, Alice dear, play us a waltz,’ cried Olive.
 ‘You know how stupid I am; I can’t play a note without my music, and it is all locked up in my trunk upstairs.’
 ‘It won’t take you a minute to get it out,’ said Mrs. Barton; and moving, as if she were on wheels, towards her daughter, she whispered: ‘Do as I tell you — run upstairs at once and get your music.’
 She looked questioningly at her mother and hesitated. But Mrs. Barton had a way of compelling obedience, and the girl went upstairs, to return soon after with a roll of music. At the best of times she had little love of the art, but now, sick with disappointment, and weary from a long railway journey, to spell through the rhythm of the My Queen Waltz and the jangle of L’Esprit Français was to her an odious and, when the object of it was considered, an abominable duty to perform. She had to keep her whole attention fixed on the page before her, but when she raised her eyes the picture she saw engraved itself on her mind. It was a long time before she could forget Olive’s blond, cameo-like profile seen leaning over the old beau’s fat shoulder. Mrs. Barton laughed and laughed again, declaring the while that it was la grâce et la beauté réunies. Mr. Barton shouted and twanged in measure, the excitement gaining on him until he rushed at his wife, and, seizing her round the waist, whirled her and whirled her, holding his guitar above her head. At last they bumped against Milord, and shot the old man and his burden on to the nearest sofa. Then Alice, who thought her mission at the piano was over, rose to go, but Mrs. Barton ordered her to resume her seat, and the dancing was continued till the carriage came up the gravel sweep to fetch Milord away. This was generally about half-past eleven, and as he muffled himself up in overcoats, the girls were told to cram his pockets with cigarettes and bon-bons.
 ‘Bedad, I think it is revolvers and policemen you ought to be givin’ me, not swatemates,’ he said, affecting a brogue.
 ‘Oh yes, is it not dreadful?’ exclaimed Mrs. Barton. ‘I don’t know what we shall do if the Government don’t put down the Land League; we shall all be shot in our beds some night. Did you hear of that murder the other day?’
 ‘And it is said there will be no rents collected this year,’ said Mr. Barton, as he tightened one of the strings of his guitar.
 ‘Oh, do cease that noise!’ said Mrs. Barton. ‘And tell me, Lord Dungory, will the Government refuse us soldiers and police to put the people out?’
 ‘If we go to the Castle, we shall want more money to buy dresses,’ said Olive.
 ‘La mer a toujours son écume pour habiller ses déesses,’ replied Milord; and he got into his carriage amid pearly peals of laughter from Mrs. Barton, intermingled with a few high notes from Olive, who had already taken to mimicking her mother.

V
Mr. Barton, or Arthur, as he was usually called, always returned to his studio immediately after breakfast, and, as Mrs. Barton had domestic duties to attend to, the girls were left to themselves to appreciate their return home from school and look forward to their entry into the life of the world.
 The two girls descended the stairs with their summer hats and sunshades, and Alice stopped at the door of the schoolroom. It was here that, only a few years ago, she had interceded with the dear old governess, and aided Olive to master the difficulties against which the light brain could not contend singly — the hardships of striving to recall the number of continents the world possesses, the impossibility of learning to say definitely if seven times four made twenty-eight or thirty.
 At the end of the passage under the stairs the children used to play for hours, building strange houses out of boxes of bricks, or dressing dolls in fantastic costumes. Olive had forgotten, but Alice remembered, and her thoughts wandered through the land of toys. The box of bricks had come from an aunt that was now dead; the big doll mother had brought from Dublin when she went to see the oculist about her eyes; and then there were other toys that suggested nothing, and whose history was entirely forgotten. But the clock that stood in the passage was well remembered, and Alice thought how this old-fashioned timepiece used to be the regulator and confidant of all their joys and hopes. She saw herself again listening, amid her sums, for the welcome voice that would call her away; she saw herself again examining its grave face and striving to calculate, with childish eagerness, if she would have time to build another Tower of Babel or put another tack in the doll’s frock before the ruthless iron tongue struck the fatal hour.
 ‘Olive, is it possible you don’t remember how we used to listen to the dear old clock when we were children?’
 ‘You are a funny girl, Alice; you remember everything. Fancy thinking of that old clock! I hated it, for it brought me to lessons when it struck eleven.’
 ‘Yes, but it brought you out to play when it struck twelve. See! the hands are just on the hour; let us wait to hear it strike.’
 The girls listened vainly for a sound; and Alice felt as if she had been apprised of the loss of a tried friend when one of the servants told them the clock had been broken some years ago.
 The kitchen windows looked on a street made by a line of buildings parallel with the house. These were the stables and outhouses, and they formed one of the walls of the garden that lay behind, sheltered on the north side by a thin curtain of beeches, filled every evening with noisy rooks; and, coming round to the front of the house, the girls lingered beneath the chestnut-trees, and in the rosary, where a little fountain played when visitors were present, and then stood leaning over the wooden paling that defended the pleasure-ground from the cows that grazed in the generous expanse of grass extending up to the trees of the Lawler domain. Brookfield was therefore without pretensions — it could hardly be called ‘a place’ — but, manifolded in dreams past and present, it extended indefinitely before Alice’s eyes, and, absorbed by the sad sweetness of retrospection, she lingered while Olive ran through the rosary from the stables and back again, calling to her sister, making the sunlight ring with her light laughter. She refrained, therefore, from reminding her that it was here they used to play with Nell, the old setter, and that it was there they gave bread to the blind beggar; Olive had no heart for these things, and when she admired the sleek carriage-horses that had lately been bought to take them to balls and tennis-parties, Alice thought of the old brown mare that used to take them for such delightful drives.
 Suddenly Mrs. Barton’s voice was heard calling. Milord had arrived: they were to go into the garden and pick a few flowers to make a buttonhole for him. Olive darted off at once to execute the commission, and soon returned with a rose set round with stephanotis. The old lord, seated in the dining-room, in an arm-chair which Mrs. Barton had drawn up to the window so that he might enjoy the air, sipped his sherry, and Alice, as she entered the room, heard him say:
 ‘Quand on aime on est toujours bien portant.’
 She stopped abruptly, and Mrs. Barton, who already suspected her of secret criticism, whispered, as she glided across the room:
 ‘Now, my dear girl, go and talk to Milord and make yourself agreeable.’
 The girl felt she was incapable of this, and it pained her to listen to her sister’s facile hilarity, and her mother’s coaxing observations. Milord did not, however, neglect her; he made suitable remarks concerning her school successes, and asked appropriate questions anent her little play of King Cophetua. But whatever interest the subject possessed was found in the fact that Olive had taken the part of the Princess; and, re-arranging the story a little, Mrs. Barton declared, with a shower of little laughs, and many waves of the white hands, that ‘my lady there had refused a King; a nice beginning, indeed, and a pleasant future for her chaperon.’
 The few books the house possessed lay on the drawing-room table, or were piled, in dusty confusion, in the bookcase in Mr. Barton’s studio; and, thinking of them, Alice determined she would pay her father a visit in his studio.
 At her knock he ceased singing Il Balen, and cried, ‘Come in!’
 ‘I beg your pardon, papa; I’m afraid I am interrupting you.’
 ‘Not at all — not at all, I assure you; come in. I will have a cigarette; there is nothing like reconsidering one’s work through the smoke of a cigarette. The most beautiful pictures I have ever seen I have seen in the smoke of a cigarette; nothing can beat those, particularly if you are lying back looking up at a dirty ceiling.’
 War and women were the two poles of Arthur’s mind. Cain shielding his Wife from Wild Beasts had often been painted, numberless Bridals of Triermain; and as for the Rape of the Sabines, it seemed as if it could never be sufficiently accomplished. Opposite the door was a huge design representing Samson and Delilah; opposite the fireplace, Julius Caesar overturning the Altars of the Druids occupied nearly the entire wall. Nymphs and tigers were scattered in between; canvases were also propped against almost every piece of furniture.
 At last Alice’s eyes were suddenly caught by a picture representing three women bathing. It was a very rough sketch, but, before she had time to examine it, Arthur turned it against the wall. Why he hid two pictures from her she could not help wondering. It could not be for propriety’s sake, for there were nudities on every side of her.
 Then, lying upon the sofa, he explained how So-and-so had told him, when he was a boy in London, that no one since Michael Angelo had been able to design as he could; how he had modelled a colossal statue of Lucifer before he was sixteen, how he had painted a picture of the Battle of Arbela, forty feet by twenty, before he was eighteen; but that was of no use, the world nowadays only cared for execution, and he could not wait until he had got the bit of ribbon in Delilah’s hair to look exactly like silk.
 Alice listened to her father babbling, her heart and her mind at variance. A want of knowledge of painting might blind her to the effects of his pictures (there was in them all a certain crude merit of design), but it was impossible not to see that they were lacking in something, in what she could not say, having no knowledge of painting. Nor was she sure that her father believed in his pictures, though he had just declared they had all the beauties of Raphael and other beauties besides. He had a trick of never appearing to thoroughly believe in them and in himself. She listened interested and amused, not knowing how to take him. She had been away at school for nearly ten years, coming home for rare holidays, and was, therefore, without any real knowledge of her parents. She understood her father even less than her mother; but she was certain that if he were not a great genius he might have been one, and she resolved to find out Lord Dungory’s opinions on her father. But the opportunity for five minutes quiet chat behind her mother’s back did not present itself. As soon as he arrived her mother sent her out of the room on some pretext more or less valid, and at the end of the week the gowns that had been ordered in Dublin arrived: ecstasy consumed the house, and she heard him say that he would give a great dinner-party to show them off.

VI
Arthur, who rarely dined out, handed the ladies into the carriage.
 Mrs. Barton was beautifully dressed in black satin; Olive was lost in a mass of tulle; Alice wore a black silk trimmed with passementerie and red ribbons. Behind the Clare mountains the pale transitory colours of the hour faded, and the women, their bodies and their thoughts swayed together by the motion of the vehicle, listened to the irritating barking of the cottage-dog. Surlily a peasant, returning from his work, his frieze coat swung over one shoulder, stepped aside. A bare-legged woman, surrounded by her half-naked children, leaving the potato she was peeling in front of her door, gazed, like her husband, after the rolling vision of elegance that went by her, and her obtuse brain probably summed up the implacable decrees of Destiny in the phrase:
 ‘Shure there misht be a gathering at the big house this evening.’
 ‘But tell me, mamma,’ said Olive, after a long silence, ‘how much champagne ought I to drink at dinner? You know, it is a long time since I have tasted it. Indeed, I don’t remember that I ever did taste it.’
 Mrs. Barton laughed softly:
 ‘Well, my dear, I don’t think that two glasses could do you any harm; but I would not advise you to drink any more.’
 ‘And what shall I say to the man who takes me down to dinner? Shall I have to begin the conversation, or will he?’
 ‘He will be sure to say something; you need not trouble yourself about that. I think we shall meet some nice men to-night. Captain Hibbert will be there. He is very handsome and well-connected. I hope he will take you down. Then there will be the Honourable Mr. Burke. He is a nice little man, but there’s not much in him, and he hasn’t a penny. His brother is Lord Kilcarney, a confirmed bachelor. Then there will be Mr. Adair; he is very well off. He has at least four thousand a year in the country; but it would seem that he doesn’t care for women. He is very clever; he writes pamphlets. He used to sympathize with the Land League, but the outrages went against his conscience. You never know what he really does think. He admires Gladstone, and Gladstone says he can’t do without him.’
 They had now passed the lodge-gates, and were driving through the park. Herds of fallow deer moved away, but the broad bluff forms of the red deer gazed steadfastly as lions from the crest of a hill.
 ‘Did you ever meet Lady Dungory, mamma?’ asked Alice. ‘Is she dead?’
 ‘No, dear, she is not dead; but it would be better, perhaps, if she were. She behaved very badly. Lord Dungory had to get a separation. No one ever speaks of her now. Mind, you are warned!’
 At this moment the carriage stopped before a modern house, built between two massive Irish towers entirely covered with huge ivy.
 ‘I am afraid we are a little late,’ said Mrs. Barton to the servant, as he relieved them of their sorties de bal.
 ‘Eight o’clock has just struck, ma’am.’
 ‘The two old things will make faces at us, I know,’ murmured Mrs. Barton, as she ascended the steps.
 On either side there were cases of stuffed birds; a fox lay in wait for a pheasant on the right; an otter devoured a trout on the left. These attested the sporting tastes of a former generation. The white marble statues of nymphs sleeping in the shadows of the different landings and the Oriental draperies with which each cabinet was hung suggested the dilettantism of the present owner.
 Mrs. Barton walked on in front; the girls drew together like birds. They were amazed at the stateliness of the library, and they marvelled at the richness of the chandeliers and the curiously assorted pictures. The company was assembled in a small room at the end of the suite.
 Two tall, bony, high-nosed women advanced and shook hands menacingly with Mrs. Barton. They were dressed alike in beautiful gowns of gold-brown plush.
 With a cutting stare and a few cold conventional words, they welcomed Olive and Alice home to the country again. Lord Dungory whispered something to Mrs. Barton. Olive passed across the room; the black coats gave way, and, as a white rose in a blood-coloured glass, her shoulders rose out of the red tulle. Captain Hibbert twisted his brown-gold moustache, and, with the critical gaze of the connoisseur, examined the undulating lines of the arms, the delicate waist, and the sloping hips: her skirts seemed to fall before his looks.
 Immediately after, the roaring of a gong was heard, and the form of the stately butler was seen approaching. Lord Dungory and Lady Jane exchanged looks. The former offered his arm to Mrs. Gould; the latter, her finger on her lips, in a movement expressive of profound meditation, said:
 ‘Mr. Ryan, will you take down Mrs. Barton; Mr. Scully, will you take Miss Olive Barton; Mr. Adair, will you take Miss Gould; Mr. Lynch, will you take Miss Alice Barton; Mr. Burke, will you take my sister?’ Then, smiling at the thought that she had checkmated her father, who had ordered that Olive Barton should go down with Captain Hibbert, she took Captain Hibbert’s arm, and followed the dinner-party. About the marble statues and stuffed birds on the staircase flowed a murmur of amiability, and, during a pause, skirts were settled amid the chairs, which the powdered footmen drew back ceremoniously to make way for the guests to pass.
 A copy of Murillo’s Madonna presenting the Divine Child to St. Joseph hung over the fireplace; between the windows another Madonna stood on a half-moon, and when Lord Dungory said, ‘For what we are going to receive, the Lord make us truly thankful,’ these pictures helped the company to realize a suitable, although momentary emotion.
 Turtle soup was handed round. The soft steaming fragrance mixed with the fresh perfume of the roses that bloomed in a silver vase beneath the light of the red-shaded wax candles. A tree covered with azaleas spread notes of delicate colour over the gold screen that hid the door by which the servants came and went.
 ‘Oh, Lady Sarah,’ exclaimed Mrs. Gould, ‘I do not know how you have such beautiful flowers — and in this wretched climate!’
 ‘Yes, it is very trying; but then we have a great deal of glass.’
 ‘Which do you prefer, roses or azaleas?’ asked Mrs. Barton.
 ‘Les roses sont les fleurs en corsage, mais les azalées sont les fleurs en peignoir.’
 Lady Sarah and Lady Jane, who had both overheard the remark, levelled indignant glances at their father, scornful looks at Mrs. Barton, and, to avoid further amatory allusions, Lady Sarah said:
 ‘I do not think we shall soon have bread, much less flowers, to place on our tables, if the Government do not step in and put down the revolution that is going on in this country.’
 Everyone, except the young girls, looked questioningly at each other, and the mutuality of their interests on this point became at once apparent.
 ‘Ah, Lord Dungory! do you think we shall be able to collect our rents this year? What reduction do you intend to give?’
 Lord Dungory, who had no intention of showing his hand, said:
 ‘The Land League has, I believe, advised the people to pay no more than Griffith’s valuation. I do not know if your lands are let very much above it?’
 ‘If you have not seen the Evening Mail you have probably not heard of the last terrible outrage,’ said Captain Hibbert; and, amid a profound silence, he continued: ‘I do not know if anybody here is acquainted with a Mr. Macnamara; he lives in Meath.’
 ‘Oh! you don’t say anything has happened to him? I knew his cousin,’ exclaimed Mrs. Gould.
 Captain Hibbert looked round with his bland, good-looking stare, and, as no nearer relative appeared to be present, he resumed his story:
 ‘He was, it seems, sitting smoking after dinner, when suddenly two shots were fired through the windows.’
 At this moment a champagne-cork slipped through the butler’s fingers and went off with a bang.
 ‘Oh, goodness me! what’s that?’ exclaimed Mrs. Gould; and, to pass off their own fears, everyone was glad to laugh at the old lady. It was not until Captain Hibbert told that Mr. Macnamara had been so severely wounded that his life was despaired of, that the chewing faces became grave again.
 ‘And I hear that Macnamara had the foinest harses in Mathe,’ said Mr. Ryan; ‘I very nearly sold him one last year at the harse show.’
 Mr. Ryan was the laughing-stock of the country, and a list of the grotesque sayings he was supposed, on different occasions, to have been guilty of, was constantly in progress of development. He lived with his cousin, Mr. Lynch, and, in conjunction, they farmed large tracts of land. Mr. Ryan was short and thick; Mr. Lynch was taller and larger, and a pair of mutton-chop whiskers made his bloated face look bigger still. On either side of the white tablecloth their dirty hands fumbled at their shirt-studs, that constantly threatened to fall through the worn buttonholes. They were, nevertheless, received everywhere, and Pathre, as Mr. Ryan was called by his friends, was permitted the licences that are usually granted to the buffoon.
 ‘Arrah!’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t moind the lague being hard on them who lives out of the counthry, spendin’ their cash on liquor and theatres in London; but what can they have agin us who stops at home, mindin’ our properties and riding our harses?’
 This criticism of justice, as administered by the league, did not, however, seem to meet with the entire approval of those present. Mr. Adair looked grave; he evidently thought it was based on a superficial notion of political economy. Mr. Burke, a very young man with a tiny red moustache and a curious habit of wriggling his long weak neck, feeling his amusements were being unfairly attacked, broke the silence he had till then preserved, and said:
 ‘I haven’t an acre of land in the world, but if my brother chooses to live in London, I don’t see why he should be deprived of his rents. For my part, I like the Gaiety Theatre, and so does my brother. Have you seen the Forty Thieves, Lady Jane? Capital piece — I saw it twenty times.’
 ‘I think what Pathre, me cousin, means to say,’ said Mr. Lynch, declining the venison the servant offered him, ‘is that there are many in the country who don’t deserve much consideration. I am alluding to those who acquired their property in the land courts, and the Cromwellians, and the — I mean the rack-renters.’
 The sudden remembrance that Lord Dungory dated from the time of James so upset Mr. Lynch that he called back the servant and accepted the venison, which he failed, however, to eat.
 ‘I do not see,’ said Lord Dungory, with the air of a man whose words are conclusive, ‘why we should go back to the time of Cromwell to discuss the rights of property rather than to that of the early Kings of Ireland. If there is to be a returning, why not at once put in a claim on the part of the Irish Elk? No! there must be some finality in human affairs.’ And on this phrase the conversation came to a pause.
 But if the opinions of those present were not in accord concerning the rights of property, their tastes in conversation certainly differed as widely. Olive’s white face twitched from time to time with nervous annoyance. Alice looked up in a sort of mild despair as she strove to answer Mr. Lynch’s questions; May had fallen into a state of morose lassitude. If Mr. Adair would only cease to explain to her how successfully he had employed concrete in the construction of his farm-buildings! She felt that if he started again on the saw-mill she must faint, and Olive’s senses, too, were swimming, but just as she thought she was going off Captain Hibbert looked so admiringly at her that she recovered herself; and at the same time Mr. Scully succeeded in making May understand that he would infinitely prefer to be near her than Lady Sarah. In return for this expression of feeling the young lady determined to risk a remark across the table; but she was cut short by Mrs. Gould, who pithily summed up the political situation in the words:
 ‘The way I look at it is like this: Will the Government help us to get our rents, or will it not? Mr. Forster’s Act does not seem to be able to do that. There’s May there who has been talking all the morning of Castle seasons, and London seasons, and I don’t know what; really I don’t see how it is to be done if the Land League — ’
 ‘And Mr. Parnell’s a gentleman, too. I wonder how he can ally himself with such blackguards,’ gently insinuated Mrs. Barton, who saw a husband lost in the politician.
 But the difficulty the Government find themselves in is that the Land League is apparently a legal organization,’ said Lord Dungory in the midst of a profound silence.
 ‘A society legal, that exists and holds its power through an organized system of outrage! Mind you, as I have always said, the landlords have brought all their misfortunes upon themselves; they have often behaved disgracefully — but I would, nevertheless, put down the outrages; yes, I would put down the outrages, and at any cost.’
 ‘And what would yer do?’ asked Mr. Ryan. ‘De yer know that the herds are being coerced now? we’d get on well enough were it not for that.’
 ‘In the beginning of this year Mr. Forster asked Parliament for special powers. How has he used those powers? Without trial, five hundred people have been thrown into prison, and each fresh arrest is answered by a fresh outrage; and when the warrant is issued, and I suppose it will be issued sooner or later, for the arrest of Mr. Parnell, I should not be surprised to hear of a general strike being made against rent. The consequences of such an event will be terrific; but let these consequences, I say, rest on Mr. Forster’s head. I shall have no word of pity for him. His government is a disgrace to Liberalism, and I fear he has done much to prejudice our ideal in the eyes of the world.’
 Lord Dungory and Lady Jane exchanged smiles; and poor crotchety Mr. Adair leaned forward his large, bald brow, obscured by many obscure ideals. After a pause he continued:
 ‘But I was speaking of Flanders. From the time of Charles the Fifth the most severe laws were enacted to put down the outrages, but there was an undercurrent of sympathy with the outrage-monger which kept the system alive until 1840. Then the Government took the matter in hand, and treated outrage-mongering as what it is — an act of war; and quartered troops on the inhabitants and stamped the disease out in a few years. Of course I could not, and would not, advocate the employment of such drastic measures in Ireland; but I would put down the outrages with a firm hand, and I would render them impossible in the future by the creation of peasant-proprietors.’
 Then, amid the juicy odours of cut pineapple, and the tepid flavours of Burgundy, Mr. Adair warmed to his subject, and proceeded to explain that absolute property did not exist in land in Ireland before 1600, and, illustrating his arguments with quotations from Arthur Young, he spoke of the plantation of Ulster, the leases of the eighteenth century, the Protestants in the North, the employment of labour; until, at last, inebriated with theory, he asked the company what was the end of government?
 This was too much, and, seeing the weary faces about him, Lord Dungory determined to change the subject of conversation:
 ‘The end of government?’ he said; ‘I am afraid that you would get many different answers to that question. Ask these young ladies; they will tell you, probably, that it is to have des beaux amants et des joyeuses amours, and I am not sure that they are not right.’
 Mrs. Barton’s coaxing laugh was heard, and then reference was made to the detachment of the Connaught Rangers stationed at Galway, and the possibility of their giving a dance was eagerly discussed. Mr. Ryan had a word to say anent the hunting prospect, and, when May Gould declared she was going to ride straight and not miss a meet, she completed the conquest of Mr. Scully, and encouraging glances were exchanged between them until Lady Sarah looked inquiringly round the table — then she pushed back her chair. All rose, and a moment after, through the twilight of the drawing-room, colour and nudity were scattered in picturesque confusion.
 Every mind was occupied by one thought — how the pleasure of the dinner-party had been spoiled by that horrible Land League discussion. All wondered who had introduced the subject, and the blame was fixed upon Mr. Adair. Mrs. Gould, in her homely way, came to the point at once:
 ‘People say he is so clever, but I am sure I can’t see it. He has spent a fortune in building farmyards in concrete, and his saw-mill, I hear, costs him twenty pounds a month dead loss, and he is always writing letters to the papers. I never can think much of a man who writes to the papers.’
 ‘A most superior man,’ said Lady Sarah, who, notwithstanding her thirty-five years, had not entirely given up hope. ‘He took honours at Trinity.’
 Then Mr. Burke and Lord Kilcarney were spoken of, and some new anecdotes were told of Mr. Ryan. The famous one — how he had asked a lady to show him her docket at the Galway ball, when she told him that she was engaged for all the dances — excited, as it never failed to do, a good deal of laughter. Mrs. Barton did not, however, join in the conversation. She knew, if she did, that the Ladies Cullen would be as rude as the absence of Milord, and the fact that she was a guest in their house would allow them to be. Mrs. Barton’s mind was now occupied with one thought, and, leaning back in her chair, she yielded herself entirely to it. Although the dinner-party had been spoiled by Mr. Adair’s uncontrollable desire to impart information, she had, nevertheless, noticed that Captain Hibbert had been very much struck with Olive’s beauty. She was aware that her daughter was a beautiful girl, but whether men would want to marry her Mrs. Barton did not know. Captain Hibbert’s conduct would help her to arrive at a decision. She certainly dreamed of a title for Olive. Lord Kilcarney was, alas! not to be thought of. Ah! if Mr. Burke were only Lord Kilcarney! But he was not. However, Captain Hibbert would be a fairly good match. He was of excellent family, had two thousand a year, and a place in the country and in England too. But why snatch up the very first fish that came by? There was no saying whom they would meet at the Castle. Still, to encourage a flirtation could be no harm. If they met anything better, it could be broken off; if they did not, it would be a very nice match indeed. Besides, there was no denying that Olive was a little too naïve in her manner. Captain Hibbert’s society would brush that off, and Olive would go up to the Castle with the reputation of having made a conquest.
 Such were Mrs. Barton’s thoughts as she sat, her hands laid like china ornaments on her lap; her feet were tucked under the black-pleated skirt, and she sometimes raised her Greuze-like eyes and looked at her daughter.
 The girls were grouped around a small table, on which stood a feather-shaded lamp. In clear voices and clear laughs they were talking of each other’s dresses. May had just stood up to show off her skirt. She was a superb specimen of a fat girl, and in a glow of orange ribbons and red hair she commanded admiration.
 ‘And to think she is going to waste her time with that dissipated young man, Mr. Scully!’ thought Mrs. Barton. Then Olive stood up. She was all rose, and when, laughing, with a delicious movement of the arms, she hitched back her bustle, she lost her original air, and looked as might have done the Fornarina when not sitting in immortality. It was the battle of blonde tints: Olive with primroses and corn, May with a cadmium yellow and red gold.
 ‘And now, Alice, get up and let’s see you!’ she cried, catching hold of her sister’s arm.
 Still resisting, Alice rose to her feet, and May, who was full of good nature, made some judicious observations.
 ‘And how different we all look from what we did at the convent! Do you remember our white frocks?’
 Alice’s face lit up with a sudden remembrance, and she said:
 ‘But why, Lady Sarah, haven’t we seen Cecilia? I’ve been thinking of her during dinner. I hope she is not ill?’
 ‘Oh, dear me, no! But poor Cecilia does not care to come down when there is company.’
 ‘But can I not see her?’
 ‘Oh, certainly! You will find her in her room. But you do not know the way; I will ring for my maid, she will show you.’
 At this moment men’s voices were heard on the staircase. The ladies all looked up, the light defining the corner of a forehead, the outline of a nose and chin, bathing a neck in warm shadow, modelling a shoulder with grey tints, sending a thousand rays flashing through the diamonds on the bosom, touching the finger-rings, and lastly dying away amid the folds of the dresses that trailed on the soft carpet. Mr. Ryan, walking with his habitual roll and his hands in his pockets, entered. His tie was under his left ear. Mr. Lynch, haunted by the idea that he had not made himself agreeable to Alice during dinner, sat down beside her. Mr. Scully made a rush for May. Tall, handsome Captain Hibbert, with his air of conventional high style, quitted Lord Dungory, and asked Olive what they had been saying since they left the dining-room. Mr. Burke tried to join in the conversation, but Mr. Ryan, thinking it would be as well not to let the occasion slip of speaking of a certain ‘bay harse who’d jump anythin’,’ took him confidentially by the sleeve.
 ‘Now, look here, will yer,’ he began. The rest of his remarks were lost in the hum of the conversation, and by well-bred transitions observations were made on the dancing and hunting prospects of the season. Mr. Adair took no interest in such subjects, and to everyone’s relief he remained silent. May and Fred Scully had withdrawn to a corner of the room where they could talk more at their ease; Captain Hibbert was conscious of nothing but Olive and her laughter, which rippled and tinkled through an odour of coffee.
 Little by little she was gaining the attention of the room. Mr. Adair ceased to listen to Lord Dungory, who was explaining why Leonardo da Vinci was a greater painter than Titian. Mr. Lynch left off talking to Alice; the little blonde honourable looked sillier and sillier as his admiration grew upon him. Mrs. Barton, to hide her emotion, engaged in an ardent discussion concerning the rearing of calves with Mrs. Gould. Lady Sarah bit her lip, and, unable to endure her enemy’s triumph any longer, she said in her most mellifluous tone:
 ‘Won’t you sing us something, Captain Hibbert?’
 ‘Well, really, Lady Sarah, I should be very glad, but I don’t think, you know — I am not sure I could manage without my music.’
 ‘I shall be very glad to accompany you. I think I know In the Gloaming, and I have heard you sing that.’
 Olive, at a sign from her mother, entreated, and when the gallant Captain rolled from under the brown-gold moustache the phrase, ‘Oh, my darling!’ all strove not to look at her, and when he dropped his voice to a whisper, and sang of his aching heart, a feeling prevailed that all were guilty of an indiscretion in listening to such an intimate avowal. Then he sang two songs more, equally filled with reference to tears, blighted love, and the possibility of meeting in other years, and Olive hung down her head, overcome by the fine sentiments which she felt were addressed to her.
 Meanwhile Alice became aware that her sister was the object of all eyes and thoughts; that she was gaining the triumph that men are agreed may be desired by women without impropriety. Alice was a healthy-bodied girl; her blood flowed as warm as in her sister. The men about her did not correspond with her ideal, but this scarcely rendered the fact that they neglected her less bitter. She asked Lady Sarah again if she might go upstairs and see Cecilia.
 She found the little cripple leaning over the banisters listening to the sound of voices.
 ‘Oh, my dear! Is it you? I expected you to come to see me when you left the gentlemen in the dining-room.’
 ‘I couldn’t come before, dear,’ said Alice, kissing her friend. ‘Just as I was asking Lady Sarah the way to your room, we heard them coming.’
 ‘And how did you like the party? Which of the men did you think the nicest?’
 ‘I did not care for any of them; and oh, that odious Mr. Lynch!’
 Cecilia’s eyes flashed with a momentary gleam of satisfaction, and spoke of a little excursion — a walk to the Brennans, who lived two miles distant — that she had been planning for the last few days.

VII
The girls had given each other rendezvous at the gate of Dungory Castle. Lover was never more anxious to meet mistress than this little deformed girl to see her friend; and Alice could see her walking hurriedly up and down the gravel-sweep in front of the massive grey-stone lodge.
 ‘She will see me next time she turns,’ thought Alice; and immediately after Cecilia uttered a joyful cry and ran forward.
 ‘Oh, so it is you, Alice! I am so glad! I thought you were going to disappoint me.’
 ‘And why, dear, did you think I was going to disappoint you?’ said Alice, stooping to kiss the wan, wistful face.
 ‘I don’t know — I can’t say — but I fancied something would happen;’ and the great brown eyes began to melt with tears of delight. ‘I had, you know, set my heart on this walk with you.’
 ‘I am sure the pleasure is as much mine as yours; and now, whither lies our way?’
 ‘Through the deer-park, through the oakwood, across the fields into the highroad, and then you are at the gate,’
 ‘Won’t that be too far for you?’
 ‘Oh, not at all! It is not more than a mile and a half; but for you, you had to come another mile and a half. It is fully that from here to Brookfield. But tell me, dear,’ said Cecilia, clinging to her friend’s arm, ‘why have you not been over to see me before? It is not kind of you; we have been home from school now over a fortnight, and, except on the night of the dinner-party, I haven’t seen you once.’
 ‘I was coming over to see you last week, dear; but, to tell you the truth, mamma prevented me. I cannot think why, but somehow she does not seem to care that I should go to Dungory Castle. But for the matter of that, why did you not come to see me? I’ve been expecting you every day.’
 ‘I couldn’t come either. My sisters advised me — I mean, insisted on my stopping at home.’
 ‘And why?’
 ‘I really can’t say,’ replied Cecilia.
 And now Alice knew that the Ladies Cullen hated Mrs. Barton for her intimacy with Lord Dungory. She longed to talk the matter out, but dared not; while Cecilia regretted she had spoken; for, with the quickness of the deformed, she knew that Alice had divined the truth of the family feud.
 The sun fell like lead upon the short grass of the deer-park and the frizzled heads of the hawthorns. On the right the green masses of the oakwood shut in the view, and the stately red deer, lolling their high necks, marched away through the hillocks, as if offended at their solitude being disturbed. One poor crippled hind walked with a wretched sidling movement, and Alice hoped Cecilia would not notice it, lest it should remind her of her own misfortune.
 ‘I am sure,’ she said, ‘we never knew finer weather than this in England. I don’t think there could be finer weather, and still they say the tenants are worse off than ever; that no rent at all, at least nothing above Griffith’s valuation, will be paid.’
 ‘Do they speak much of Griffith’s valuation at Dungory Castle?’
 ‘Oh! they never cease, and — and — I don’t know whether I ought to say, but it won’t matter with you, I suppose? — mind, you must not breathe a word of this at Brookfield — the fact is my sisters’ school — you know they have a school, and go in for trying to convert the people — well, this has got papa into a great deal of trouble. The Bishop has sent down another priest — I think they call it a mission — and we are going to be preached against, and papa received a threatening letter this morning. He is going, I believe, to apply for police.’
 ‘And is this on account of the proselytizing?’
 ‘Oh! no, not entirely; he has refused to give his tenants Griffith’s valuation; but it makes one very unpopular to be denounced by the priest. I assure you, papa is very angry. He told Sarah and Jane this morning at breakfast that he’d have no more of it; that they had no right to go into the poor people’s houses and pull the children from under the beds, and ask why they were not at school; that he didn’t care of what religion they were as long as they paid the rent; and that he wasn’t going to have his life endangered for such nonsense. There was an awful row at home this morning. For my own part, I must say I sympathize with papa. Besides the school, Sarah has, you know, a shop, where she sells bacon, sugar, and tea at cost price, and it is well-known that those who send their children to the school will never be asked to pay their bills. She wanted me to come and help to weigh out the meal, Jane being confined to her room with a sick headache, but I got out of it. I would not, if I could, convert those poor people. You know, I often fancy — I mean fear — I often sympathize too much with your creed. It was only at service last Sunday I was thinking of it; our religion seems so cold, so cheerless compared to yours. You remember the convent-church at St. Leonard’s — the incense, the vestments, the white-veiled congregation — oh, how beautiful it was; we shall never be so happy again!’
 ‘Yes, indeed; and how cross we used to think those dear nuns. You remember Sister Mary, how she used to lecture Violet for getting up to look out of the windows. What used she to say? ‘Do you want, miss, to be taken for a housemaid or scullery-maid, staring at people in that way as they pass?’’
 ‘Yes, yes; that’s exactly how she used to speak,’ exclaimed Cecilia, laughing. And, as the girls advanced through the oakwood, they helped each other through the briers and over the trunks of fallen trees, talking, the while, of their past life, which now seemed to them but one long, sweet joy. A reference to how May Gould used to gallop the pony round and round the field at the back of the convent was interrupted by the terrifying sound of a cock-pheasant getting up from some bracken under their very feet; and, amid the scurrying of rabbits in couples and half-dozens, modest allusion was made to the girls who had been expelled in ’75. Absorbed in the sweetness of the past, the girls mused, until they emerged from the shade of the woods into the glare and dust of the highroad. Then came a view of rocky country, with harvesters working in tiny fields, and then the great blue background of the Clare Mountains was suddenly unfolded. A line and a bunch of trees indicated the Brennan domain. The gate-lodge was in ruins, and the weed-grown avenue was covered with cow-dung.
 ‘Which of the girls do you like best?’ said Alice, who wished to cease thinking of the poverty in which the spinsters lived.
 ‘Emily, I think; she doesn’t say much, but she is more sensible than the other two. Gladys wearies me with her absurd affectations; Zoe is well enough, but what names!’
 ‘Yes, Emily has certainly the best of the names,’ Alice replied, laughing.
 ‘Are the Miss Brennans at home?’ said Cecilia, when the maid opened the hall-door.
 ‘Yes, miss — I mean your ladyship — will you walk in?’
 ‘You’ll see, they’ll keep us waiting a good half-hour while they put on their best frocks,’ said Cecilia, as she sat down in a faded arm-chair in the middle of the room. A piano was rolled close against the wall, the two rosewood cabinets were symmetrically placed on either side of the farther window; from brass rods the thick, green curtains hung in stiff folds, and, since the hanging of some water-colours, done by Zoe before leaving school, no alterations, except the removal of the linen covers from the furniture when visitors were expected, had been made in the arrangement of the room.
 The Brennan family consisted of three girls — Gladys, Zoe, and Emily. Thirty-three, thirty-one, and thirty were their respective ages. Their father and mother, dead some ten or a dozen years, had left them joint proprietors of a small property that gossip had magnified to three thousand. They were known as the heiresses of Kinvarra; snub noses and blue eyes betrayed their Celtic blood; and every year they went to spend a month at the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin, returning home with quite a little trousseau. Gladys and Zoe always dressed alike, from the bow round the neck to the bow on the little shoe that they so artlessly with drew when in the presence of gentlemen. Gladys’ formula for receiving visitors never varied:
 ‘Oh, how do you do — it is really too kind of you to give yourself all this trouble to come and see us.’
 Immediately after Zoe put out her hand. Her manner was more jocose:
 ‘How d’ye do? We are, I am sure, delighted to see you. Will you have a cup of tea? I know you will.’
 Emily, being considered too shy and silent, did not often come down to receive company. On her devolved the entire management of the house and servants; the two elder sisters killed time in the way they thought would give least offence to their neighbours.
 Being all St. Leonard’s girls, the conversation immediately turned on convent-life. ‘Was Madam this there? Had Madam that left?’ Garden chapel, school, hall, dormitory, refectory were visited; every nun was passed in review, and, in the lightness and gaiety of the memories invoked, even these maiden ladies flushed and looked fresh again, the conversation came to a pause, and then allusion was made to the disturbed state of the country, and to a gentleman who, it was reported, was going to be married. But, as Alice did not know the person whose antecedents were being called into question, she took an early opportunity of asking Gladys if she cared for riding? ‘No, they never went to ride now: they used to, but they came in so fatigued that they could not talk to Emily; so they had given up riding.’ Did they care for driving? ‘Yes, pretty well; but there was no place to drive to except into Gort, and as people had been unjust enough to say that they were always to be seen in Gort, they had given up driving — unless, of course, they went to call on friends.’ Then tea was brought in; and, apropos of a casual reference to conventual buttered toast, the five girls talked, until nearly six o’clock, of their girlhood — of things that would never have any further influence in their lives, of happiness they would never experience again. At last Alice and Cecilia pleaded that they must be going home.
 As they walked across the fields the girls only spoke occasionally. Alice strove to see clear, but her thoughts were clouded, scattered, diffused. Force herself as she would, still no conclusion seemed possible; all was vague and contradictory. She had talked to these Brennans, seen how they lived, could guess what their past was, what their future must be. In that neat little house their uneventful life dribbled away in maiden idleness; neither hope nor despair broke the triviality of their days — and yet, was it their fault? No; for what could they do if no one would marry them? — a woman could do nothing without a husband.
 There is a reason for the existence of a pack-horse, but none for that of an unmarried woman. She can achieve nothing — she has no duty but, by blotting herself out, to shield herself from the attacks of ever-slandering friends. Alice had looked forward to a husband and a home as the certain accomplishment of years; now she saw that a woman, independently of her own will, may remain single.
 ‘I wonder,’ she said, forgetting for the moment she was speaking to Cecilia, ‘I wonder none of those Brennans married; you can’t call them ugly girls, and they have some money. How dreadfully lonely they must be living there by themselves!’
 ‘I think they are far happier as they are,’ said Cecilia, and her brown eyes set in liquid blue looked strangely at Alice as she helped her over the low wall. The girls walked in silence through the stillness of the silver firs, their thoughts as sharp as the needles that scratched the pale sky.
 ‘It may seem odd of me to say so — of course I would not say this to anyone but you — but I assure you, even if I were as tall as you are, dear, nothing would induce me to marry. I never took the slightest pleasure in any man’s conversation. Do you? But I know you do,’ she said, breaking off suddenly — ‘I know you like men; I feel you do. Don’t you?’
 ‘Well, since you put it so plainly, I confess I should like to know nice men. I don’t care for those I have met hitherto, particularly those I saw at dinner the other night; but I believe there are nice men in the world.’
 ‘Oh! no there aren’t.’
 ‘Well, Cecilia, I don’t see how you can speak so positively as that; you have seen, as yet, very little of the world.’
 ‘Ah, yes, but I know it; I can guess it all, I know it instinctively, and I hate it.’
 ‘There is nothing else, so we must make the best of it.’
 ‘But there is something else — there is God, and the love of beautiful things. I spent all day yesterday playing Bach’s Passion Music, and the hours passed like a dream until my sisters came in from walking and began to talk about marriage and men. It made me feel sick — it was horrible; and it is such things that make me hate life — and I do hate it; it is the way we are brought back to earth, and forced to realize how vile and degraded we are. Society seems to me no better than a pigsty; but in the beautiful convent — that we shall, alas! never see again — it was not so. There, at least, life was pure — yes, and beautiful. Do you not remember that beautiful white church with all its white pillars and statues, and the dark-robed nuns, and the white-veiled girls, their veils falling from their bent heads? They often seemed to me like angels. I am sure that Heaven must be very much like that — pure, desireless, contemplative.’
 Amazed, Alice looked at her friend questioningly, for she had never heard her speak like this before. But Cecilia did not see her; the prominent eyes of the mystic were veiled with strange glamour, and, with divine gourmandise, she savoured the ineffable sweetness of the vision, and, after a long silence, she said:
 ‘I often wonder, Alice, how you can think as you do; and, strange to say, no one suspects you are an unbeliever; you’re so good in all except that one point.’
 ‘But surely, dear, it isn’t a merit to believe; it is hardly a thing that we can call into existence.’
 ‘You should pray for faith.’
 ‘I don’t see how I can pray if I haven’t faith.’
 ‘You’re too clever; but I would ask you, Alice — you never told me — did you never believe in God, I mean when you were a little child?’
 ‘I suppose I must have, but, as well as I can remember, it was only in a very half-hearted way. I could never quite bring myself to credit that there was a Being far away, sitting behind a cloud, who kept his eye on all the different worlds, and looked after them just as a stationmaster looks after the arrival and departure of trains from some great terminus.’
 ‘Alice! how can you talk so? Aren’t you afraid that something awful might happen to you for talking of the Creator of all things in that way?’
 ‘Why should I be afraid, and why should that Being, if he exists, be angry with me for my sincerity? If he be all-powerful, it rests with himself to make me believe.’
 They had now accomplished the greater part of their journey, and, a little tired, had sat down to rest on a portion of a tree left by the woodcutters. Gold rays slanted through the glades, enveloping and rounding off the tall smooth trunks that rose branchless to a height of thirty, even forty, feet; and the pink clouds, seen through the arching dome of green, were vague as the picture on some dim cathedral-roof.
 ‘In places like these, I wonder you don’t feel God’s presence.’
 ‘On the contrary, the charm of nature is broken when we introduce a ruling official.’
 ‘Alice! how can you — you who are so good — speak in that way?’ At that moment a dead leaf rustled through the silence — ‘And do you think that we shall die like that leaf? That, like it, we shall become a part of the earth and be forgotten as utterly?’
 ‘I am afraid I do. That dead, fluttering thing was once a bud; it lived the summer-life of a leaf; now it will decay through the winter, and perhaps the next, until it finally becomes part of the earth. Everything in nature I see pursuing the same course; why should I imagine myself an exception to the general rule?’
 ‘What, then, is the meaning of life?’
 ‘That I’m afraid we shall never learn from listening to the rustling of leaves.’
 The short sharp cry of a bird broke the mild calm of the woods, and Alice said:
 ‘Perhaps the same thought that troubles us is troubling that bird.’
 The girls walked on in silence, and when they came to the end of the path and their parting was inevitable, there was something of the passion of the lover in Cecilia’s voice: ‘Promise me you will come to see me soon again. You’ll not leave me so long; you will write; I shall not be able to live if I don’t hear from you.’
 The sound of hooves was heard, and a pair of cream-coloured ponies, with a florid woman driving determinedly, came sweeping round the corner.
 ‘What a strange person!’ said Alice, watching the blue veil and the brightly dyed hair.
 ‘Don’t you know who she is?’ said Cecilia; ‘that is your neighbour, Mrs. Lawler.’
 ‘Oh! is it really? I have been so long at school that I know nobody — I have been anxious to see her. Why, I wonder, do people speak of her so mysteriously?’
 ‘You must have heard that she isn’t visited?’
 ‘Well, yes; but I didn’t quite understand. Your father was saying something the other day about Mr. Lawler’s shooting-parties; then mamma looked at him; he laughed and spoke of "les colombes de Cythère." I intended to ask mamma what he meant, but somehow I forgot.’
 ‘She was one of those women that walk about the streets by night.’
 ‘Oh! really!’ said Alice; and the conversation came to a sudden pause. They had never spoken upon such a subject before, and the presence of the deformed girl rendered it a doubly painful one. In her embarrassment, Alice said:
 ‘Then I wonder Mr. Lawler married her. Was it his fault that — ’
 ‘Oh! I don’t think so,’ Cecilia replied, scornfully: ‘but what does it matter? — she was quite good enough for him.’
 At every moment a new Cecilia was revealing herself, the existence of whom Alice had not even suspected in the old; and as she hurried home she wondered if the minds of the other girls were the same as they were at school. Olive? She could see but little change in her sister; and May she had scarcely spoken to since they left school; Violet she hadn’t met since they parted at Athenry for their different homes. But Cecilia — She entered the house still thinking of her, and heard Olive telling her mother that Captain Hibbert had admired her new hat.
 ‘He told me that I’d be the handsomest girl at the Drawing-Room.’
 ‘And what did you say, dear?’
 ‘I asked him how he knew. Was that right?’
 ‘Quite right; and what did he say then?’
 ‘He said, because he had never seen anybody so handsome, and as he had seen everybody in London, he supposed — I forget the exact words, but they were very nice; I am sure he admired my new hat; but you — you haven’t told me how you liked it. Do you think I should wear it down on my eyes, or a bit back?’
 ‘I think it very becoming as it is; but tell me more about Captain Hibbert.’
 ‘He told me he was coming to meet us at Mass. You know he is a Roman Catholic?’
 ‘I know he is, dear, and am very glad.’
 ‘If he weren’t, he wouldn’t be able to meet us at Mass.’

VIII
According to old-established custom, on the arrival of his family Arthur had turned his nudities to the wall, and now sitting, one leg tucked under him, on the sofa, throwing back from time to time his long blond locks, he hummed an Italian air.
 ‘How tired you look, Alice dear! Will you have a cup of tea? It will freshen you up; you have been walking yourself to death.’
 ‘Thanks, mamma, I will have a cup of tea; Cecilia and I went to see the Brennans.’
 ‘And are any of them going to be married yet?’ said Olive.
 ‘I really don’t know; I didn’t ask them.’
 ‘Well, they ought to be doing something with themselves; they have been trying it on long enough. They have been going up to the Shelbourne for the last ten years. Did they show you the dresses they brought down this season? They haven’t worn them yet — they keep them wrapped up in silver paper.’
 ‘And how did you hear all that?’ she asked.
 ‘Oh, one hears everything! I don’t live with my nose buried in a book like you. That was all very well in the convent.’
 ‘But what have I done that you should speak to me in that way?’
 ‘Now, Alice dear,’ said Mrs. Barton coaxingly, ‘don’t get angry. I assure you Olive means nothing.’
 ‘No, indeed, I didn’t!’ Olive exclaimed, and she forced her sister back into the chair.
 Arthur’s attention had been too deeply absorbed in the serenade in Don Pasquale to give heed to the feminine bickering with which his studio was ringing, until he was startled suddenly from his musical dreaming by an angry exclamation from his wife.
 The picture of the bathers, which Alice had seen begun, had been only partially turned to the wall, and, after examining it for a few moments, Mrs. Barton got up and turned the picture round. The two naked creatures who were taking a dip in the quiet, sunlit pool were Olive and Mrs. Barton; and so grotesque were the likenesses that Alice could not refrain from laughing.
 ‘This is monstrous! This is disgraceful, sir! How often have I forbidden you to paint my face on any of your shameless pictures? And your daughter, too — and just as she is coming out! Do you want to ruin us? I should like to know what anyone would think if — ‘ And, unable to complete her sentence, either mentally or aloud, Mrs. Barton wheeled the easel, on which a large picture stood, into the full light of the window.
 If Arthur had wounded the susceptibilities of his family before, he had outraged them now. The great woman, who had gathered to her bosom one of the doves her naked son, Cupid, had shot out of the trees with his bow and arrow, was Olive. The white face and its high nose, beautiful as a head by Canova is beautiful; the corn-like tresses, piled on the top of the absurdly small head, were, beyond mistaking, Olive. Mrs. Barton stammered for words; Olive burst into tears.
 ‘Oh, papa! how could you disgrace me in that way? Oh, I am disgraced! There’s no use in my going to the Drawing-Room now.’
 ‘My dear, my dear, I assure you I can change it with a flick of the brush. Admiration carried away by idea. I promise you I’ll change it.’
 ‘Come away. Olive — come away!’ said Mrs. Barton, casting a look of burning indignation at her husband. ‘If you cry like that, Olive, you won’t be fit to be looked at, and Captain Hibbert is coming here to-night.’
 When they had left the room Arthur looked inquiringly at Alice.
 ‘This is very disagreeable,’ he said; ‘I really didn’t think the likeness was so marked as all that; I assure you I didn’t. I must do something to alter it — I might change the colour of the hair; but no, I can’t do that, the entire scheme of colour depends upon that. It is a great pity, for it is one of my best things; the features I might alter, and yet it is very hard to do so, without losing the character. I wonder if I were to make the nose straighter. Alice, dear, would you mind turning your head this way?’
 ‘Oh! no, no, no, papa dear! You aren’t going to put my face upon it!’ And she ran from the room smothered with laughter.
 When this little quarrel was over and done, and Olive had ceased to consider herself a disgraced girl, the allusion that had been made to Mass as a means of meeting Captain Hibbert remained like a sting in Alice’s memory. It surprised her at all sorts of odd moments, and often forced her, under many different impulses of mind, to reconsider the religious problem more passionately and intensely than she had ever done before. She asked herself if she had ever believed? Perhaps in very early youth, in a sort of vague, half-hearted way, she had taken for granted the usual traditional ideas of heaven and hell, but even then, she remembered, she used to wonder how it was that time was found for everything else but God. If He existed, it seemed to her that monks and nuns, or puritans of the sternest type, were alone in the right. And yet she couldn’t quite feel that they were right. She had always been intensely conscious of the grotesque contrast between a creed like that of the Christian, and having dancing and French lessons, and going to garden-parties — yes, and making wreaths and decorations for churches at Christmas-time. If one only believed, and had but a shilling, surely the only logical way of spending it was to give it to the poor, or a missionary — and yet nobody seemed to think so. Priests and bishops did not do so, she herself did not want to do so; still, so long as Alice believed, she was unable to get rid of the idea. Teachers might say what they pleased, but the creed they taught spoke for itself, and prescribed an impossible ideal — an unsatisfactory ideal which aspired to no more than saving oneself after all.
 Lies and all kinds of subterfuge were strictly against her character. But it was impossible for her to do or say anything when by so doing she knew she might cause suffering or give pain to anyone, even an enemy; and this defect in her character forced her to live up to what she deemed a lie. She had longed to tell the truth and thereby be saved the mummery of attending at Mass; but when she realized the consternation, the agony of mind, it would cause the nuns she loved, she held back the word. But since she had left the convent she had begun to feel that her life must correspond to her ideas and she had determined to speak to her mother on this (for her) all-important subject — the conformity of her outer life to her inner life. The power to prevail upon herself to do what she thought wrong merely because she did not wish to wound other people’s feelings was dying in her. Sooner or later she would have to break away; and as the hour approached when they should go to Mass to meet Captain Hibbert, the desire to be allowed to stay away became almost irresistible; and at the last moment it was only a foolish fear that such a declaration might interfere with her sister’s prospects that stayed the words as they rose to her lips. She picked up her gloves, and a moment after found herself in the brougham — packed into it, watching the expressionless church-going faces of her family.
 From afar the clanging of a high-swinging bell was heard, and the harsh reverberations, travelling over the rocky town-lands, summoned the cottagers to God. The peasants stepped aside to let the carriage pass. Peasants and landlords were going to worship in the same chapel, but it would seem from the proclamations pasted on the gate-posts that the house of prayer had gone over into the possession of the tenantry.
 ‘Now, Arthur — do you hear? — you mustn’t look at those horrid papers!’ Mrs. Barton whispered to her husband. ‘We must pretend not to see them. I wonder how Father Shannon can allow such a thing, making the house of God into — into I don’t know what, for the purpose of preaching robbery and murder. Just look at the country-people — how sour and wicked they look! Don’t they, Alice?’
 ‘Goodness me!’ said Olive, ‘who in the world can those people be in our pew?’
 Mrs. Barton trembled a little. Had the peasants seized the religious possessions of their oppressors? Dismissing the suspicion, she examined the backs indicated by Olive.
 ‘Why, my dear, it is the Goulds; what can have brought them all this way?’
 The expected boredom of the service was forgotten, and Olive shook hands warmly with Mrs. Gould and May.
 ‘Why, you must have driven fifteen miles; where are your horses?’
 ‘We took the liberty of sending the carriage on to Brookfield, and we are coming on to lunch with you — that is to say, if you will let us?’ cried May.
 ‘Of course, of course; but how nice of you!’
 ‘Oh! we have such news; but it was courageous of us to come all this way. Have you seen those terrible proclamations?’
 ‘Indeed we have. Just fancy a priest allowing his chapel to be turned into a political — political what shall I call it?’
 ‘Bear-garden,’ suggested May.
 ‘And Father Shannon is going to take the chair at the meeting; he wouldn’t get his dues if he didn’t.’
 ‘Hush, hush! they may hear you; but you were saying something about news.’
 ‘Oh! don’t ask me,’ said Mrs. Gould; ‘that’s May’s affair — such work!’
 ‘Say quickly! what is it, May?’
 ‘Look here, girls, I can’t explain everything now; but we are going to give a ball — that is to say, all the young girls are going to subscribe. It will only cost us about three pounds apiece — that is to say, if we can get forty subscribers; we have got twenty already, and we hope you will join us. It is going to be called the Spinsters’ Ball. But there is such a lot to be done: the supper to be got together, the decorations of the room — splendid room, the old schoolhouse, you know. We are going to ask you to let us take Alice away with us.’
 The conversation was here interrupted by the appearance of the priest, a large fat man, whose new, thick-soled boots creaked as he ascended the steps of the altar. He was preceded by two boys dressed in white and black surplices, who rang little brass bells furiously; a great trampling of feet was heard, and the peasants came into the church, coughing and grunting with monotonous, animal-like voices; and the sour odour of cabin-smoked frieze arose — it was almost visible in the great beams of light that poured through the eastern windows; whiffs of unclean leather, mingled with a smell of a sick child; and Olive and May, exchanging looks of disgust, drew forth cambric pocket-handkerchiefs, and in unison the perfumes of white rose and eau d’opoponax evaporated softly.
 Just behind Alice a man groaned and cleared his throat with loud guffaws; she listened to hear the saliva fall: it splashed on the earthen floor. Farther away a circle of dried and yellowing faces bespoke centuries of damp cabins; they moaned and sighed, a prey to the gross superstition of the moment. One man, bent double, beat a ragged shirt with a clenched fist; the women of forty, with cloaks drawn over their foreheads and trailing on the ground in long black folds, crouched until only the lean, hard-worked hands that held the rosary were seen over the bench-rail.
 The sermon came in the middle of Mass, and was a violent denunciation of the Ladies Cullen, who, it was stated, had pursued one poor boy until he took refuge in an empty house, the door of which he was fortunately enabled to fasten against them; they had sent a sick woman blankets, in which they had not neglected to enclose some tracts; amateur shopkeeping, winter clothing, wood, turf, presents of meal, wine, and potatoes were all vigorously attacked as the wiles of the Evil One to lead the faithful from the true Church.

IX
As they returned from church, a horseman was seen riding rapidly towards them. It was Captain Hibbert. The movement of his shoulders, as he reined in his mettlesome bay, was picturesque, and he was coaxingly and gushingly upbraided for neglect of his religious duties.
 During lunch, curiosity rendered May and Mrs. Gould nearly speechless; but their carriage had not turned into the highroad, on its way home, when the latter melted into a shower of laudatory words and phrases:
 ‘What a charming man Captain Hibbert is! No wonder you young ladies like the military. He is so good-looking — and such good manners. Don’t you think so, Alice dear?’
 ‘I think the Captain a very handsome man — indeed, I believe that there are not two opinions on the subject.’
 ‘And Olive — I do not remember that I ever saw a more beautiful girl. Such hair! and her figure so sylph-like! I do not know what the young ladies will do — she will cut everybody out at the Castle!’
 ‘I don’t know about that,’ said May jauntily; ‘what one man will turn his nose up at, another will go wild after.’
 Mrs. Gould did not answer; but her lips twitched, and Alice guessed she was annoyed that May could not express herself less emphatically. In a few moments the conversation was continued:
 ‘At any rate, Captain Hibbert seems to think there is no one like Olive; and they’d make a handsome couple. What do you think, Alice? Is there any chance of there being a match?’
 ‘I really can’t tell you, Mrs. Gould. Olive, as you say, is a very beautiful girl, and I suppose Captain Hibbert admires her; but I don’t think that either has, up to the present, thought of the matter more seriously.’
 ‘You must admit, Alice, that he seems a bit gone on her,’ said May, with a direct determination to annoy her mother.
 ‘May, dear, you shouldn’t talk in that slangy way; you never used to; you have picked it up from Mr. Scully. Do you know Mr. Scully, Alice? Violet’s brother.’
 ‘Yes, I met him the night we dined at Lord Dungory’s.’
 ‘Oh, of course you did. Well, I admit I don’t like him; but May does. They go out training horses together. I don’t mind that; but I wish she wouldn’t imitate his way of talking. He has been a very wild young man.’
 ‘Now, mother dear, I wish you would leave off abusing Fred. I have repeatedly told you that I don’t like it.’
 The acerbity of this remark was softened by May’s manner, and, throwing her arms on her mother’s shoulders, she commenced to coax and cajole her.
 The Goulds were of an excellent county family. They had for certainly three generations lived in comfortable idleness, watching from their big square house the different collections of hamlets toiling and moiling, and paying their rents every gale day. It was said that some ancestor, whose portrait still existed, had gone to India and come back with the money that had purchased the greater part of the property. But, be this as it may, in Galway three generations of landlordism are considered sufficient repentance for shopkeeping in Gort, not to speak of Calcutta. Since then the family history had been stainless. Father and son had in turn put their horses out to grass in April, had begun to train them again in August, had boasted at the Dublin horse-show of having been out cub-hunting, had ridden and drunk hard from the age of twenty to seventy. But, by dying at fifty-five, the late squire had deviated slightly from the regular line, and the son and heir being only twelve, a pause had come in the hereditary life of the Goulds. In the interim, however, May had apparently resolved to keep up the traditions so far as her sex was supposed to allow her.
 They lived in one of those box-like mansions, so many of which were built in Ireland under the Georges. On either side trees had been planted, and they stretched to the right and left like the wings of a theatre. In front there was a green lawn; at the back a sloppy stableyard. The latter was May’s especial delight, and when Mr. Scully was with them, it seemed impossible to induce her to leave it. He frequently rode over to Beechgrove, and towards the end of the afternoon it became easy to persuade him to stay to dinner. And, as the night darkened and the rain began to fall, the inhospitality of turning him out was insisted on by May, and Mrs. Gould sent up word that a room was to be prepared for him. Next morning he sent home for a change of things, and thus it was not infrequent for him to protract his visit to the extent of three or four days.
 His great friend, Mrs. Manly — a lady who had jumped five feet, four months before the birth of her sixth child — had said that his was a ‘wasted life,’ and the phrase, summing up what most people thought of him, gained currency, and was now generally used whenever his conduct was criticized or impeached. After having been in London, where he spent some years in certain vague employments, and having contracted as much debt as his creditors would permit, and more than his father would pay, he had gone through the Bankruptcy Court, and returned home to drag through life wearily, through days and weeks so appallingly idle, that he often feared to get out of bed in the morning. At first his father had tried to make use of him in his agency business, and it was principally owing to Mr. Fred’s bullying and insolent manners that Mr. Scully was now unable to leave his house unless accompanied by police.
 Fred was about thirty years of age. His legs were long, his hands were bony, and ‘stableyard’ was written in capital letters on his face. He carried a Sportsman under his arm, a penny and a half-crown jingled in his pocket; and as he walked he lashed the trousers and boot, whose elegance was an echo of the old Regent Street days, with an ash-plant.
 Such was the physiology of this being, and from it the psychology is easy to surmise: a complete powerlessness to understand that there was anything in life worth seeking except pleasure — and pleasure to Fred meant horses and women. Of earthly honour the greatest was to be well known in an English hunting country; and he was not averse to speaking of certain ladies of title, with whom he had been on intimate terms, and with whom, it was said, he corresponded. On occasions he would read or recite poems, cut from the pages of the Society Journals, to his lady friends.
 May, however, saw nothing but the outside. The already peeling-off varnish of a few years of London life satisfied her. Given a certain versatility in turning a complimentary phrase, the abundant ease with which he explained his tastes, which, although few, were pronounced, add to these the remnant of fashion that still lingered in his wardrobe — scarfs from the Burlington Arcade, scent from Bond Street, cracked patent-leather shoes and mended silk stockings — and it will be understood how May built something that did duty for an ideal out of this broken-down swell.
 She was a girl of violent blood, and, excited by the air of the hunting-field, she followed Fred’s lead fearlessly; to feel the life of the horse throbbing underneath her passioned and fevered her flesh until her mental exaltation reached the rushing of delirium. Then his evening manners fascinated her, and, as he leaned back smoking in the dining-room arm-chair, his patent-leather shoes propped up against the mantelpiece, he showed her glimpses of a wider world than she knew of — and the girl’s eyes softened as she listened to his accounts of the great life he had led, the county-houses he had visited, and the legendary runs he had held his own in. She sympathized with him when he explained how hardly fate had dealt with him in not giving him £5,000 a year, to be spent in London and Northamptonshire.
 He cursed Ireland as the most hideous hole under the sun; he frightened Mrs. Gould by reiterated assurances that the Land League would leave them all beggars; and, having established this point, he proceeded to develop his plan for buying young horses, training them, and disposing of them in the English market. Eventually he dismissed his audience by taking up the newspaper and falling asleep with the stump of a burned-out cigarette between his lips. After breakfast he was seen slouching through the laurels on his way to the stables. From the kitchen and the larder — where the girls were immersed in calculations anent the number of hams, tongues, and sirloins of beef that would be required — he could be seen passing; and as May stood on no ceremony with Alice, whistling to her dogs, and sticking both hands into the pockets of her blue dress, she rushed after him, the mud of the yard oozing through the loose, broken boots which she insisted on wearing. Behind the stables there was a small field that had lately been converted into an exercise-ground, and there the two would stand for hours, watching a couple of goat-like colts, mounted by country lads — still in corduroy and hobnails — walking round and round.
 Mrs. Gould was clearly troubled by this very plain conduct. Once or twice she allowed a word of regret to escape her, and Alice could see that she lived in awe of her daughter. And May, there was no doubt, was a little lawless when Fred was about her skirts; but when he was gone she returned to her old, glad, affectionate ways and to her work.
 The girls delighted in each other’s society, and the arrangements for their ball were henceforth a continual occupation. The number of letters that had to be written was endless. Sitting at either end of the table in the drawing-room, their pens scratched and their tongues rattled together; and, penetrated with the intimacy of home, all kinds of stories were told, and the whole country was passed in review.
 ‘And do you know,’ said May, raising her eyes from the letter she was writing, ‘when this affair was first started mamma was afraid to go in for it; she said we’d find it hard to hunt up fifty spinsters in Galway.’
 ‘I said fifty who would subscribe — a very different thing indeed.’
 ‘Oh no, you didn’t, mamma; you said there weren’t fifty spinsters in Galway — a jolly lucky thing it would be if there weren’t; wouldn’t it, Alice?’
 Alice was busy trying to disentangle a difficult sentence. Her startled face made May laugh.
 ‘It isn’t cheering, is it?’
 ‘I didn’t hear what you were saying,’ she answered, a little vexed at being misunderstood. ‘But fifty, surely, is a great number. Are there so many unmarried women in Galway?’
 ‘I should think there are,’ replied May, as if glorying in the fact. ‘Who are there down your side of the country? Let’s count. To begin with, there are the Brennans — there are three of them, and all three are out of the running, distanced.’
 ‘Now, May, how can you talk like that?’ said Mrs. Gould, and she pulled up her skirt so that she could roast her fat thick legs more comfortably before the fire. There being no man present, she undid a button or two of her dress.
 ‘You said so yourself the other day, mother.’
 ‘No, I didn’t, May, and I wish you wouldn’t vex me. What I say I stand by, and I merely wondered why girls with good fortunes like the Brennans didn’t get married.’
 ‘You said the fact was there was no one to marry.’
 ‘May, I will not allow you to contradict me!’ exclaimed Mrs. Gould; and she grew purple to the roots of her white hair. ‘I said the Brennans looked too high, that they wanted gentlemen, eldest sons of county families; but if they’d been content to marry in their own position of life they would have been married long ago.’
 ‘Well, mother dear, there’s no use being angry about it; let the thing pass. You know the Brennans, Alice; they are neighbours of yours.’
 ‘Yes, Cecilia and I walked over to see them the other day; we had tea with them.’
 ‘Their great hunting-ground is the Shelbourne Hotel — they take it in turns, a couple of them go up every six months.’
 ‘How can you say such things, May? I will not suffer it.’
 ‘I say it! I know nothing about it. I’ve only just come back from school; it is you who tell me these things when we are sitting here alone of an evening.’
 Mrs. Gould’s face again became purple, and she protested vehemently: ‘I shall leave the room, May. I will not suffer it one moment longer. I can’t think how it is you dare speak to me in that way; and, what is worse, attribute to me such ill-natured remarks.’
 ‘Now, mother dear, don’t bother, perhaps I did exaggerate. I am very sorry. But, there’s a dear, sit down, and we won’t say any more about it.’
 ‘You do annoy one, May, and I believe you do it on purpose. And you know exactly what will be disagreeable to say, and you say it,’ replied Mrs. Gould; and she raised her skirt so as to let the heat of the fire into her petticoats.
 ‘Thank God that’s over,’ May whispered to Alice; ‘but what were we talking about?’
 ‘I think you were making out a list of the Galway spinsters,’ said Alice, who could not help feeling a little amused, though she was sorry for Mrs. Gould.
 ‘So we were,’ cried May; ‘we were speaking of the Brennans. Do you know their friends the Duffys? There are five of them. That’s a nice little covey of love-birds; I don’t think they would fly away if they saw a sportsman coming into the field.’
 ‘I never heard a girl talk like that,’ murmured Mrs. Gould, without raising her face from the fire, ‘that wasn’t punished for it. Perhaps, my lady, you will find it hard enough to suit yourself. Wait until you have done two or three Castle seasons. We’ll see how you’ll speak then.’
 Without paying any attention to these maternal forebodings, May continued:
 ‘Then there are Lord Rosshill’s seven daughters; they are all maidens, and are likely to remain so.’
 ‘Are they all unmarried?’ asked Alice.
 ‘Of course they are!’ exclaimed Mrs. Gould; ‘how could they be anything else? Didn’t they all want to marry people in their father’s position? And that wasn’t possible. There’re seven Honourable Miss Gores, and one Lord Rosshill — so they all remained in single blessedness.’
 ‘Who’s making ill-natured remarks now?’ exclaimed May triumphantly.
 ‘I am not making ill-natured remarks; I am only saying what’s true. My advice to young girls is that they should be glad to have those who will take them. If they can’t make a good marriage let them make a bad marriage; for, believe me, it is far better to be minding your own children than your sister’s or your brother’s children. And I can assure you, in these days of competition, it is no easy matter to get settled.’
 ‘It is the same now as ever it was, and there are plenty of nice young men. It doesn’t prove, because a whole lot of old sticks of things can’t get married, that I shan’t.’
 ‘I didn’t say you wouldn’t get married, May; I am sure that any man would be only too glad to have you; but what I say is that these grand matches that girls dream of aren’t possible nowadays. Nice young men! I dare say; and plenty of them, I know them; young scamps without a shilling, who amuse themselves with a girl until they are tired of her, and then, off they go. Now, then, let’s count up the good matches that are going in the county — ’
 At this moment the servant was heard at the door bringing in the tea.
 ‘Oh! bother!’ exclaimed Mrs. Gould, settling her dress hurriedly. The interval was full of secret irritation; and the three women watched the methodical butler place the urn on the table, turn up the lamp that was burning low, and bring chairs forward from the farthest corners.
 ‘On your side of the county,’ said Mrs. Gould, as soon as the door was closed, ‘there is our brace of baronets, as they are called. But poor Sir Richard — I am afraid he is a bad case — and yet he never took to drink until he was five-and-thirty; and as for Sir Charles — of course there are great advantages, he has a very fine property; but still many girls might — and I can quite understand their not liking to marry him.’
 ‘Why, Mrs. Gould, what is wrong with him?’ Alice asked innocently.
 ‘Don’t you know?’ said May, winking. ‘Haven’t you heard? But I forgot, he isn’t your side of the county. He’s married already; at least, so they say.’
 ‘It is very sad, very sad, indeed,’ murmured Mrs. Gould; ‘he’d have been a great match.’
 ‘And to whom is he married?’ said Alice, whose curiosity was awakened by the air of mystery with which the baronet was surrounded.
 ‘Well, he’s not exactly married,’ replied May, laughing; ‘but he has a large family.’
 ‘May, I will not allow it; it is very wrong of you, indeed, to talk like that — ’
 ‘Now, mother dear, don’t get into a passion; where’s the harm? The whole country knows it; Violet was talking of it to me only the other day. There isn’t a man within a mile of us, so we needn’t be on our P’s and Q’s.’
 ‘And who is the mother of all these children?’ Alice asked.
 ‘A country-woman with whom he lives,’ said May. ‘Just fancy marrying a man with a little dirty crowd of illegitimate children running about the stable-yard!’
 ‘The usual thing in such cases is to emigrate them,’ said Mrs. Gould philosophically; and she again distended herself before the fire.
 ‘Emigrate them!’ cried May; ‘if he emigrated them to the moon, I wouldn’t marry such a man; would you, Alice?’
 ‘I certainly wouldn’t like to,’ and her sense of humour being now tickled by the conversation, she added slyly: ‘but you were counting up the good matches in the county.’
 ‘Ah! so we were,’ said the old lady. ‘Well, there is Mr. Adair. I am sure no girl would wish for a better husband.’
 ‘Oh, the old frump! why he must be forty if he’s a day. You remember, Alice, it was he who took me down to dinner at Lord Dungory’s. And he talked all the time of his pamphlet on the Amalgamation of the Unions, which was then in the hands of the printer; and the other in which he had pulled Mr. Parnell’s ears, Ireland under the Land League, and the series of letters he was thinking of contributing to the Irish Times on high-farming versus peasant proprietors. Just fancy, Alice, living with such a man as that!’
 ‘Well, I don’t know what you girls think,’ said Mrs. Gould, whose opinions were moods of mind rather than convictions, ‘but I assure you he passes for being the cleverest man in the county; and it is said that Gladstone is only waiting to give him a chance. But as you like; he won’t do, so let him pass. Then there is Mr. Ryan, he ought to be well off; he farms thousands of acres.’
 ‘One might as well marry a herdsman at once. Did you ever hear what he once said to a lady at a ball; you know, about the docket?’
 Alice said that she had heard the story, and the conversation turned on Mr. Lynch. Mrs. Gould admitted that he was the worser of the two.
 ‘He smells so dreadfully of whiskey,’ said Alice timidly.
 ‘Ah! you see she is coming out of her shell at last,’ exclaimed May. ‘I saw you weren’t having a very good time of it when he took you down to dinner at Dungory Castle. I wonder they were asked. Fred told me that he had never heard of their having been there before.’
 ‘It is very difficult to make up a number sometimes,’ suggested Mrs. Gould; ‘but they are certainly very coarse. I hear, when Mr. Ryan and Mr. Lynch go to fairs, that they sleep with their herdsman, and in Mayo there is a bachelor’s house where they have fine times — whiskey-drinking and dancing until three o’clock in the morning.’
 ‘And where do the ladies come from, May?’ asked Alice, for she now looked on the girl as an inexhaustible fund of information.
 ‘Plenty of ladies in the village,’ replied Mrs. Gould, rubbing her shins complacently; ‘that’s what I used to hear of in my day, and I believe the custom isn’t even yet quite extinct.’
 ‘And are there no other beaux in the county? Does that exhaust the list?’
 ‘Oh! no; but there’s something against them all. There are a few landlords who live away, and of whom nobody knows anything. Then there are some boys at school; but they are too young; there is Mr. Reed, the dispensary doctor. Mr. Burke has only two hundred a year; but if his brother were to die he would be the Marquis of Kilcarney. He’d be a great match then, in point of position; but I hear the estates are terribly encumbered.’
 ‘Has the present Marquis no children?’ said Alice.
 ‘He’s not married,’ said Mrs. Gould; ‘he’s a confirmed old bachelor. Just fancy, there’s twenty years between the brothers. I remember, in old times, the present Marquis used to be the great beau at the Castle. I don’t believe there was a girl in Dublin who didn’t have a try at him. Then who else is there? I suppose I daren’t mention the name of Mr. Fred Scully, or May will fly at me.’
 ‘No, mother dear, I won’t fly at you; but what is the use of abusing Fred? — we have known him all our lives. If he has spent his money he has done no worse than a hundred other young men. I know I can’t marry him, and I am not in love with him; but I must amuse myself with something. I can’t sit here all day listening to you lamenting over the Land League; and, after a certain number of hours, conjecturing whether Mickey Moran will or will not pay his rent becomes monotonous.’
 ‘Now don’t vex me, May; for I won’t stand it,’ said Mrs. Gould, getting angry. ‘When you ask me for a new dress you don’t think of what you are saying now. It was only the other day you were speaking to me of refurnishing this room. I should like to know how that’s to be done if there was no one to look after Mickey Moran’s rent?’
 The girls looked round the large, dull room. Emaciated forms of narrow, antique sofas were seen dimly in the musty-smelling twilight. Screens worked in red and green wools stood in the vicinity of the fireplace, the walls were lined with black pictures, and the floor, hidden in dark shadow and sunken in places, conveyed an instant idea of damp and mildew.
 ‘I think that something ought to be done,’ said May. ‘Just look at these limp curtains! Did you ever see anything so dreary? Are they brown, or red, or chocolate?’
 ‘They satisfied your betters,’ said Mrs. Gould, as she lighted her bedroom candle. ‘Goodness me!’ she added, glancing at the gilt clock that stood on the high, stucco, white-painted chimney-piece, amid a profusion of jingling glass candelabra, ‘it is really half-past twelve o’clock!’
 ‘Gracious me! there’s another evening wasted; we must really try and be more industrious. It is too late to do anything further to-night,’ said May. ‘Come on, Alice, it is time to go to bed.’

X
During the whole of the next week, until the very night of the ball, the girls hadn’t a moment they could call their own. It was impossible to say how time went. There were so many things to think of — to remind each other of. Nobody knew what they had done last, or what they should do next. The principle on which the ball had been arranged was this: the forty-five spinsters who had agreed to bear the expense, which it was guaranteed would not exceed £3 10s. apiece, were supplied each with five tickets to be distributed among their friends. To save money, the supper had been provided by the Goulds and Manlys, and day after day the rich smells of roast beef and the salt vapours of boiling hams trailed along the passages, and ascended through the banisters of the staircases in Beech Grove and Manly Park. Fifty chickens had been killed; presents of woodcock and snipe were received from all sides; salmon had arrived from Galway; cases of champagne from Dublin. As a wit said, ‘Circe has prepared a banquet and is calling us in.’
 After much hesitation, a grammar-school, built by an enterprising landlord for an inappreciative population that had declined to support it, was selected as the most suitable location for the festivities. It lay about a mile from the town, and this was in itself an advantage. To the decoration of the rooms May and Fred diligently applied themselves. Away they went every morning, the carriage filled with yards of red cloth, branches of evergreen, oak and holly, flags and Chinese lanterns. You see them: Fred mounted on a high ladder, May and the maid striving to hand him a long garland which is to be hung between the windows. You see them leaning over the counter of a hardware shop, explaining how oblong and semicircular pieces of tin are to be provided with places for candles (the illumination of the room had remained an unsolved problem until ingenious Fred had hit upon this plan); you see them running up the narrow staircases, losing themselves in the twisty passages, calling for the housekeeper; you see them trying to decide which is the gentlemen’s cloakroom, which the ladies’, and wondering if they will be able to hire enough furniture in the town to arrange a sitting-room for the chaperons.
 As May said, ‘We shall have them hanging about our heels the whole evening if we don’t try to make them comfortable.’
 At last the evening of the ball arrived, and, as the clocks were striking eight, dressed and ready to start, Alice knocked at May’s door.
 ‘What! dressed already?’ said May, as she leaned towards the glass, illuminated on either side with wax candles, and looked into the whiteness of her bosom. She wore a costume of Prussian-blue velvet and silk; the bodice (entirely of velvet) was pointed back and front, and a berthe of moresque lace softened the contrast between it and the cream tints of the skin. These and the flame-coloured hair were the spirits of the shadowy bedchamber; whereas Alice, in her white corded-silk, her clear candid eyes, was the truer Madonna whose ancient and inferior prototype stood on her bracket in a forgotten corner.
 ‘Oh! how nice you look!’ exclaimed May; ‘I don’t think I ever saw anyone look so pure.’
 Alice smiled; and, interpreting the smile, May said:
 ‘I am afraid you don’t think so much of me.’
 ‘I am sure, May, you look very nice indeed, and just as you would like to look.’
 To May’s excitable mind it was not difficult to suggest a new train of thought, and she immediately proceeded to explain why she had chosen her present dress.
 ‘I knew that you, and Olive, and Violet, and Lord knows how many others would be in white, and, as we shall all have to wear white at the Drawing-Room, I thought I’d appear in this. But isn’t the whole thing delightful? I am engaged already for several dances, and I have been practising the step all day with Fred.’ Then, singing to herself, she waltzed in front of the glass at the immediate risk of falling into the bath:

“Five-and-forty spinsters baked in a pie!
When the pie was opened the maids began to sing,
Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the King!”

 ‘Oh, dear, there’s my garter coming down!’ and, dropping on to the sofa, the girl hitched up the treacherous article of dress. ‘And tell me what you think of my legs,’ she said, advancing a pair of stately calves. ‘Violet says they are too large.’
 ‘They seem to me to be all right; but, May dear, you haven’t got a petticoat on.’
 ‘You can’t wear petticoats with these tight dresses; one can’t move one’s legs as it is.’
 ‘But don’t you think you’ll feel cold — catch cold?’
 ‘Not a bit of it; no danger of cold when you have shammy-leather drawers.’
 Then, overcome by her exuberant feelings, May began to sing: ‘Five-and-forty spinsters baked in a pie,’ etc. ‘Five-and-forty,’ she said, breaking off, ‘have subscribed. I wonder how many will be married by this time next year? You know, I shouldn’t care to be married all at once; I’d want to see the world a bit first. Even if I liked a man, I shouldn’t care to marry him now; time enough in about three years’ time, when one is beginning to get tired of flirtations and parties. I have often wondered what it must be like. Just fancy waking up and seeing a man’s face on the pillow, or for — ’
 ‘No, no, May; I will not; you must not. I will not listen to these improper conversations!’
 ‘Now, don’t get angry, there’s a dear, nice girl; you’re worse than Violet, ‘pon my word you are; but we must be off. It is a good half-hour’s drive, and we shall want to be there before nine. The people will begin to come in about that time.’
 Mrs. Gould was asleep in the drawing-room, and, as they awoke her, the sound of wheels was heard on the gravel outside. The girls hopped into the carriage. Mrs. Gould pulled herself in, and, blotted out in a far corner, thought vaguely of asking May not to dance more than three times with Fred Scully; May chattered to Alice or looked impatiently through the misted windows for the familiar signs; the shadow of a tree on the sky, or the obscure outline of a farm-building that would tell how near they were to their destination. Suddenly the carriage turned to the right, and entered a sort of crescent. There were hedges on both sides, through which vague forms were seen scrambling, but May humorously explained that as no very unpopular landlord was going to be present, it was not thought that an attempt would be made to blow up the building; and, conscious of the beautiful night which hung like a blue mysterious flower above them, they passed through a narrow doorway draped with red-striped canvas.
 ‘Now, mother, what do you think of the decorations? Do say a word of praise.’
 ‘I’ve always said, May, that you have excellent taste.’
 The school-hall and refectory had been transformed into ball and supper rooms, and the narrow passages intervening were hung with red cloth and green garlands of oak and holly. On crossing threads Chinese lanterns were wafted luminously.
 ‘What taste Fred has!’ said May, pointing to the huge arrangement that covered the end wall. ‘And haven’t my tin candelabra turned out a success? There will be no grease, and the room couldn’t be better lighted.’
 ‘But look!’ said Alice, ‘look at all those poor people staring in at the window. Isn’t it dreadful that they, in the dark and cold, should be watching us dancing in our beautiful dresses, and in our warm bright room?’
 ‘You don’t want to ask them in, do you?’
 ‘Of course not, but it seems very sinister; doesn’t it seem so to you?’
 ‘I don’t know what you mean by its being sinister; but sinister or not sinister, it couldn’t be helped; for if we had nailed up every window we should have simply died of heat.’
 ‘I hope you won’t think of opening the windows too soon,’ said Mrs. Gould. ‘You must think of us poor chaperons, who will be sitting still all night.’
 Then, in the gaping silence, the three ladies listened to the melancholy harper and the lachrymose fiddlers who, on the estrade in the far corner, sat tuning their instruments. At last the people began to come in. The first were a few stray blackcoats, then feminine voices were heard in the passages, and necks and arms, green toilettes and white satin shoes, were seen passing and taking seats. Two Miss Duffys, the fattest of the four, were with their famous sister Bertha. Bertha was rarely seen in Galway; she lived with an aunt in Dublin, where her terrible tongue was dreaded by the débutantes at the Castle. In a yellow dress as loud and as hard as her voice, she stood explaining that she had come down expressly for the ball. Opposite, the Honourable Miss Gores made a group of five; and a few men who preferred consideration to amusement made their way towards them. The Brennans — Gladys and Zoe — as soon as they saw Alice, asked after Lord Dungory; and all the girls were anxious to see Violet, who they feared would seem thin in a low dress.
 Hers was the charm of an infinite fragility. The bosom, whose curves were so faint that they were epicene, was set in a bodice of white broché, joining a skirt of white satin, with an overskirt of tulle, and the only touch of colour was a bunch of pink and white azaleas worn on the left shoulder. And how irresistibly suggestive of an Indian carved ivory were the wee foot, the thin arm, the slender cheek!
 ‘How sweet you look, Violet,’ said Alice, with frank admiration in her eyes.
 ‘Thanks for saying so; ‘tisn’t often we girls pay each other compliments. But you, you do look ever so nice in that white silk. It becomes you perfectly.’ And then, her thoughts straying suddenly from Alice’s dress, she said:
 ‘Do you see Mr. Burke over there? If his brother died he would be a marquis. Do you know him?’
 ‘Yes; I met him at dinner at Dungory Castle.’
 ‘Well, introduce him to me if you get a chance.’
 ‘I am afraid you will find him stupid.’
 ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter; ‘tis good form to be seen dancing with an Honourable. Do you know many men in the room?’
 Alice admitted she knew no one, and, lapsing into silence, the girls scanned the ranks for possible partners. Poor Sir Richard, already very drunk, his necktie twisted under his right ear, was vainly attempting to say something to those whom he knew, or fancied he knew. Sir Charles, forgetful of the family at home, was flirting with a young girl whose mother was probably formulating the details of a new emigration scheme. Dirty Mr. Ryan, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his baggy trousers, whispered words of counsel to Mr. Lynch: a rumour had gone abroad that Captain Hibbert was going to hunt that season in Galway, and would want a couple of horses. Mr. Adair was making grotesque attempts to talk to a lady of dancing. On every side voices were heard speaking of the distances they had achieved: some had driven twenty, some thirty miles.
 Already the first notes of the waltz had been shrieked out by the cornet, and Mr. Fred Scully, with May’s red tresses on his shoulder, was about to start, when Mrs. Barton and Olive entered. Olive, in white silk, so tightly drawn back that every line of her supple thighs, and every plumpness of her superb haunches was seen; and the double garland of geraniums that encircled the tulle veiling seemed like flowers of blood scattered on virgin snow. Her beauty imposed admiration; and, murmuring assent, the dancers involuntarily drew into lines, and this pale, uncoloured loveliness, her high nose seen, and her silly laugh heard, by the side of her sharp, brown-eyed mother, passed down the room. Lord Dungory and Lord Rosshill advanced to meet them; a moment after Captain Hibbert and Mr. Burke came up to ask for dances; a waltz was promised to each. A circling crowd of black-coats instantly absorbed the triumphant picture; the violinist scraped, and the harper twanged intermittently; a band of fox-hunters arrived; girls had been chosen, and in the small space of floor that remained the white skirts and red tail coats passed and repassed, borne along Strauss’s indomitable rhythms.
 An hour passed: perspiration had begun to loosen the work of curling-tongs; dust had thickened the voices, but the joy of exercise was in every head and limb. A couple would rush off for a cup of tea, or an ice, and then, pale and breathless, return to the fray. Mrs. Manly was the gayest. Pushing her children out of her skirts, she called upon May:
 ‘Now then, May, have you a partner? We are going to have a real romp — we are going to have Kitchen Lancers. I’ll undertake to see everybody through them.’
 A select few, by signs, winks, and natural instinct, were drawn towards this convivial circle; but, notwithstanding all her efforts to make herself understood, Mrs. Manly was sadly hampered by the presence of a tub-like old lady who, with a small boy, was seeking a vis-à-vis.
 ‘My dear May, we can’t have her here, we are going to romp; anyone can see that. Tell her we are going to dance Kitchen Lancers.’
 But the old lady could not be made to understand, and it was with difficulty that she was disentangled from the sixteen. At that moment the appearance of a waiter with a telegram caused the dancers to pause. Mr. Burke’s name was whispered in front of the messenger; but he who, until that evening, had been Mr. Burke, was now the Marquis of Kilcarney. The smiling mouth drooped to an expression of fear as he tore open the envelope. One glance was enough; he looked about the room like one dazed. Then, as his eyes fell upon the vague faces seen looking through the wet November pane, he muttered: ‘Oh! you brutes, you brutes! so you have shot my brother!’
 Unchecked, the harper twanged and the fiddler scraped out the tune of their Lancers. Few really knew what had happened, and the newly-made marquis had to fight his way through women who, in skin-tight dresses, danced with wantoning movements of the hips, and threw themselves into the arms of men, to be, in true kitchen-fashion, whirled round and round with prodigious violence.
 Nevertheless, Lord Dungory and Lord Rosshill could not conceal their annoyance; both felt keenly that they had compromised themselves by remaining in the room after the news of so dreadful a catastrophe. But, as Mrs. Barton was anxious that her daughter’s success should not be interfered with, nothing could be done but to express sympathy in appropriate words. Nobody, Lord Dungory declared, could regret the dastardly outrage that had been committed more than he. He had known Lord Kilcarney many years, and he had always found him a man whom no one could fail to esteem. The earldom was one of the oldest in Ireland, but the marquisate did not go back farther than the last few years. Beaconsfield had given him a step in the peerage; no one knew why. A very curious man — most retiring — hated society. Then Lord Rosshill related an anecdote concerning an enormous water-jump that he and Lord Kilcarney had taken together; and he also spoke of the late Marquis’s aversion to matrimony, and hinted that he had once refused a match which would have relieved the estates of all debt. But he could not be persuaded; indeed, he had never been known to pay any woman the slightest attention.
 ‘It is to be hoped the present Marquis won’t prove so difficult to please,’ said Mrs. Gould. The remark was an unfortunate one, and the chaperons present resented this violation of their secret thoughts. Mrs. Barton and Mrs. Scully suddenly withdrew their eyes, which till then had been gently following their daughters through the figures of the dance, and, forgetting what they foresaw would be the cause of future enmity, united in condemning Mrs. Gould. Obeying a glance of the Lady Hamilton eyes, Lord Dungory said:
 ‘On cherche l’amour dans les boudoirs, non pas dans les cimetières, madame.’ Then he added (but this time only for the private ear of Mrs. Barton), ‘La mer ne rend pas ses morts, mais la tombe nous donne souvent les écussons.’
 ‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed Mrs. Barton, ‘ce Milord, il trouve l’esprit partout;’ and her light coaxing laugh dissipated this moment of ball-room gloom.
 And Alice? Although conscious of her deficiency in the trois temps, determined not to give in without an effort, she had suffered May to introduce her to a couple of officers; but to execute the step she knew theoretically, or to talk to her partner when he had dragged her, breathless, out of the bumping dances, she found to be difficult, so ignorant was she of hunting and of London theatres, and having read only one book of Ouida’s, it would be vain for her to hope to interest her partner in literature. The other girls seemed more at home with their partners, and while she walked with hers, wondering what she should say next, she noticed behind screens, under staircases, at the end of dark passages, girls whom she had known at St. Leonards incapable of learning, or even understanding the simplest lessons, suddenly transformed as if by magic into bright, clever, agreeable girls — capable of fulfilling that only duty which falls to the lot of women: of amusing men. But she could not do this, and must, therefore, resign herself to an aimless life of idleness, and be content in a few years to take a place amid the Miss Brennans, the Ladies Cullen, the Miss Duffys, the Honourable Miss Gores, those whom she saw sitting round the walls ‘waiting to be asked,’ as did the women in the old Babylonian Temple.
 Such was her criticism of life as she sat wearily answering Mrs. Gould’s tiresome questions, not daring to approach her mother, who was laughing with Olive, Captain Hibbert, and Lord Dungory. Waltz after waltz had been played, and her ears reeked with their crying strain. One or two men had asked her ‘if they might have the pleasure’; but she was determined to try dancing no more, and had refused them. At last, at the earnest request of Mrs. Gould, she had allowed Dr. Reed to take her in to supper. He was an earnest-eyed, stout, commonplace man, and looked some years over thirty. Alice, however, found she could talk to him better than with her other partners, and when they left the clattering supper-room, where plates were being broken and champagne was being drunk by the gallon, sitting on the stairs, he talked to her till voices were heard calling for his services. A dancer had been thrown and had broken his leg. Alice saw something carried towards her, and, rushing towards May, whom she saw in the doorway, she asked for an explanation.
 ‘Oh, nothing, nothing! he slipped down — has broken or sprained his ankle — that’s all. Why aren’t you dancing? Greatest fun in the world — just beginning to get noisy — and we are going it. Come on, Fred; come on!’
 To the rowdy tune of the Posthorn Polka the different couples were dashing to and fro — all a little drunk with emotion and champagne; and, as if fascinated, Alice’s eyes followed the shoulders of a tall, florid-faced man. Doing the deux temps, he traversed the room in two or three prodigious jumps. His partner, a tiny creature, looked a crushed bird within the circle of his terrible arm. Like a collier labouring in a heavy sea, a county doctor lurched from side to side, overpowered by the fattest of the Miss Duffys. A thin, trim youth, with bright eyes glancing hither and thither, executed a complex step, and glided with surprising dexterity in and out, and through this rushing mad mass of light toilettes and flying coat-tails. Marks, too, of conflict were visible. Mr. Ryan had lost some portion of his garment in an obscure misunderstanding in the supper-room. All Mr. Lynch’s studs had gone, and his shirt was in a precarious state; drunken Sir Richard had not been carried out of the room before strewing the floor with his necktie and fragments of his gloves. But these details were forgotten in the excitement. The harper twanged still more violently at his strings, the fiddler rasped out the agonizing tune more screechingly than ever; and as the delirium of the dance fevered this horde of well-bred people the desire to exercise, their animal force grew irresistible, and they charged, intent on each other’s overthrow. In the onset, the vast shoulders and the deux temps were especially successful. One couple had gone down splendidly before him, another had fallen over the prostrate ones; and in a moment, in positions more or less recumbent, eight people were on the floor. Fears were expressed for the tight dresses, and Violet had shown more of her thin ankles than was desirable; but the climax was not reached until a young man, whose unsteady legs forbade him this part of the fun, established himself in a safe corner, and commenced to push the people over as they passed him. This was the signal for the flight of the chaperons.
 ‘Now come along, Miss Barton,’ cried Mrs. Barton, catching sight of Alice; ‘and will you, Lord Dungory, look after Olive?’
 Lord Rosshill collected the five Honourable Miss Gores, the Miss Brennans drew around Mrs. Scully, who, without taking the least notice of them, steered her way.
 And so ended, at least so far as they were concerned, the ball given by the spinsters of the county of Galway. But the real end? On this subject much curiosity was evinced.
 The secret was kept for a time, but eventually the story leaked out that, overcome by the recollections of still pleasanter evenings spent under the hospitable roof of the Mayo bachelor, Mr. Ryan, Mr. Lynch and Sir Charles had brought in the maid-servants, and that, with jigs for waltzes, and whiskey for champagne, the gaiety had not been allowed to die until the day was well begun. Bit by bit and fragment by fragment the story was pieced together, and, in the secrecy of their bedrooms, with little smothered fits of laughter, the young ladies told each other how Sir Charles had danced with the big housemaid, how every time he did the cross-over he had slapped her on the belly; and then, with more laughter, they related how she had said: ‘Now don’t, Sir Charles, I forbid you to take such liberties.’ And it also became part of the story that, when they were tired of even such pleasures as these, the gentlemen had gone upstairs to where the poor man with the broken leg was lying, and had, with whiskey and song, relieved his sufferings until the Galway train rolled into Ballinasloe.