"Well, I am," says Monica; "and so you shall have every waltz on the programme."
With this she lets him take her in his arms again, and float away with her to the strains of the waltz then playing, and far away from Desmond's jealous ears.
"Well, I had no idea it was in her," says Mrs. Bohun, in a breathless sort of manner, when Monica has quite vanished. "All that was meant for you, you know; and how well she did it!"
"But why should it be meant for me? What have I done that she should so ill use me?" says Desmond, also breathless. "And you speak of her as if you admired her and she ought to be praised for her conduct when you have just heard from my own lips how devotedly I am attached to her!"
"I cannot help admiring genius when I see it," says Olga, with a gay laugh. "She made up her mind—naughty little thing!—to make you miserable a minute ago, and—she succeeded. What can compare with success! But in very truth, Brian," tapping his arm familiarly with her fan (an action Monica notes from the other side of the room), "I would see you a victor too, and in this cause. She is as worthy of you as you of her, and a fig for one's cousins and sisters and aunts, when Cupid leads the way."
She has thrown up her head, and is looking full of spirit, when young Ronayne, approaching her, says, smiling,—
"This is our dance, I think, Mrs. Bohun?"
"Is it? So far so good!" She turns again to Brian:
"'Faint heart never won fair lady,'" she says, warningly.
"I cannot accuse myself of any feebleness of that sort," says Desmond, gloomily. "As you see, it all rests with her."