"Did you hear there is to be an afternoon dance at the Barracks next week?" asks he presently. "I was at Clonbree on Thursday, and Cobbett told me about it."
"Who is Cobbett?"
"The captain there, you know. He was at Aghyohillbeg yesterday. Didn't you see him,—a little, half-starved looking man, with a skin the color of his hair, and both gray?"
"Oh, of course—now I remember him," says Monica, this fetching description having cleared her memory. "I thought to myself how odd he and the other man, Mr. Ryde, looked together, one as big as the other was little."
"I think there is more matter than brains about Ryde," says Desmond, contemptuously. "Do you think your aunt will let you go to this dance at Clonbree?"
"Oh, no; I am sure not. My aunts would be certain to look upon a dance in the Barracks as something too awfully dissipated."
"For one reason I should be glad you didn't go."
"Glad?" opening her eyes.
"Yes. That fellow Ryde never took his eyes off you yesterday."
"Is that a crime?"