No answer. Miss Beresford is looking straight before her, but her color is distinctly higher, and there is a determination about her not to be cajoled into speech, that is unmistakable. Having studied her for a little, Mr. Kelly goes on,—
"I never know whether it is Desmond's expression or manner that is so charming, therefore I conclude it is both. Have you noticed what a peculiarly lovable way he has with him? But of course not, as, somehow he has the misfortune to jar upon you. Yet very few hate him. You see, you are that excellent thing, an exception."
"I do not hate him," says Monica; and, having thus unlocked her lips against her inclination, she feels Owen Kelly of Kelly's Grove has won the game; but she bears him no ill will for all that. "It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul!"
"No! well, hate is a bitter word, and an unmannerly. I am sorry, then, that you dislike him."
"Not even that."
"You mean, you regard him with indifference!"
"Yes, exactly that," says Monica, with slow deliberation.
"I am sorry for it. He is a man upon whom both men and women smile,—a rare thing,—a very favorite of Fortune."
"She is fickle."
"She may well be dubbed so, indeed, if she deserts him at his sorest need. But as yet she is faithful, as she ought to be, to the kindest, the sincerest fellow upon earth."