"Perhaps she is afraid of the family feud," says Olga, laughing. "One hears such a lot about this Blake-Desmond affair that I feel I could take the gold medal if examined about it. There!—what nonsense! Go and speak to her, and defy those dear old ladies at Moyne."
"You were talking about that pretty Miss Beresford?" says Ronayne, as Brian moves away.
"Yes. But, sir," archly, "dare you see beauty in any woman when I am by?"
"Oh that I could see you really jealous, and of me!" returns he, half sadly, looking at her with longing eyes. "If I thought I could make your heart ache for even one short minute, I should be the happiest man alive."
"Boy, you mean! Oh, traitor! And would you have me miserable for your own gratification?"
"It would be for yours later on. For that one moment you would gain a slave forever."
"And unless I am wretched for that one moment, I cannot gain my slave?"
"You know the answer to that only too well," returns he, with so much fervor that she refuses to continue the discussion.
"Talking of jealousy," she says, lightly, with a glance at him, "it is the dream of my life to make Rossmoyne jealous,—to reduce him to absolute submission. He is so cold, so precise, so English, that it would be quite a triumph to drag him at one's chariot-wheels. Shall I be able to do it?" she turns up her charming face to his, as though in question. She is looking her very sweetest, and is tenderly aware of the fact; and, indeed, so is he.
"I suppose so," he says, in answer to her, but slowly and reproachfully.