CHAPTER XVI.
How the afternoon at Moyne proves a great success—How Olga Bohun is led into a half confession, and how Monica, growing restless, seeks a dubious solitude.
"It is quite the loveliest old place in the world!" says Mrs. Bohun, in her soft plaintive voice, speaking very enthusiastically. "We ought to be more than grateful to you, dear Miss Blake, for letting us see it."
Miss Priscilla reddens with suppressed satisfaction but says,—
"Tut tut, my dear! It is only a funny old-fashioned spot, after all," in quite an off-hand manner.
It is Friday,—the Friday,—as the Misses Blake have been thinking of it for days, in fear and trembling, as being the date of their first hospitable venture for many years.
All the Aghyohillbeg party, and the men from Clonbree Barracks, and some other neighbors, are strolling through the sweet antiquated gardens of Moyne, hedged with yews fantastically cut. The roses, white and red and yellow, are nodding their heads lazily, bowing and courtesying to the passing breeze. The stocks and mignonette are filling the air with perfume. Tall lilies are smiling from distant corners, and the little merry burn, tumbling over its gray boulders through the garden, is singing a loud and happy song, in which the birds in the trees above join heartily.
The lazy hum of many insects makes one feel even more perceptibly how drowsy-sweet is all the summer air.
Mrs. Bohun has now flitted away with Monica, who in her white gown looks the prettiest flower of all, in this "wilderness of sweets," with the tall, infatuated Ryde and handsome young Ronayne in their train. Mrs. Bohun, who is in one of her most mischievous moods to-day, has taken it into her head to snub Lord Rossmoyne and be all that is of the sweetest to Ulic Ronayne, a proceeding her cousin, Mrs. Herrick, regards with [dismay].