Not so, however, does Bella Fitzgerald regard it. She, tall, and with a would-be stately air, walks through the grounds at Lord Rossmoyne's side, to whom she has attached herself, and who, faute de mieux, makes himself as agreeable as he can to her, considering how he is inwardly raging at what he is pleased to term Olga's disgraceful behavior.
Miss Priscilla has now been seized upon by Madam O'Connor and carried off for a private confab.
"And you really must let her come to us for a week, my dear," says Madam O'Connor, in her fine rich brogue. "Yes, now, really I want her. It will be quite a favor. I can't withstand a pretty face, as you well know 'tis a weakness of mine, my dear, and she is really a pearl. Olga Bohun is talking of getting up tableaux or some such nonsense, and she wants your pretty child to help us."
"I should like her to go to you. It is very kind of you," says Miss Priscilla, but with unmistakable hesitation.
"Now, what is it? Out with it, Priscilla!" says Madam O'Connor, bluntly.
Miss Priscilla struggles with herself for yet another minute, and then says, quickly,—
"That young man Desmond,—will he be staying in your house?"
"Not if you object, my dear," says Mrs. O'Connor, kindly; "though I do think it is a pity to thwart that affair. He is as nice and as pleasant a young fellow as I know, and would make a jewel of a husband; and money—say what you like, my dear Priscilla—is always something. It ranks higher than revenge."
"There is no revenge. It is only a just resentment."
"Well, I'll call it by any name you like, my dear, but I must say——"