"What has Desmond done to you?" he says at last, slowly.
"Done?" haughtily. "Nothing. What could he do?"
"Nothing, I suppose,—as you say. By the bye, I have not seen you dancing with him this afternoon."
"No."
"How is that?"
It is an indisputable fact that some people may say with impunity what other people dare not say under pain of excommunication. Owen Kelly, as a rule, says what he likes to women without rebuke, and, what is more, without incurring their displeasure.
"How is what?"
"I thought that day at Aghyohillbeg that you and Desmond were great friends."
"Friends! when we have only seen each other two or three times. Is friendship the growth of an hour?"
"No. But something else is." He looks at her almost cheerfully as he says this. "But neither you nor I, Miss Beresford, have anything to do with that flimsy passion."