"Yes. Is that tea for me?" returns she, calmly, with great self-possession, seeing that sundry eyes are upon her.
"For you, or any one," replies he. Tone can convey far more meaning than words. The words just now are correct enough, but the tone is uncivil to the last degree. Monica, flushing slightly, takes a cup from him, and Olga takes the second.
There is a short silence whilst they stir their tea, during which Madam O'Connor's voice can be distinctly heard,—it generally can above every tumult. She is discoursing enthusiastically about some wonderful tree in her orchard, literally borne down by fruit.
"You never saw such a sight!" she is saying,—"laden down to the ground. The finest show of pears in the country. I was telling Williams he would do well to prop it. But I suppose it will ruin the tree for the next two years to come."
"What, the propping?" says Rossmoyne.
"No, the enormous produce, you silly boy!" says his hostess, with a laugh.
Monica, who is growing restless beneath Desmond's angry regard, turns to her nervously.
"I think I should like to see it," she says, softly.
"Allow me to take you to it," says Ryde, quickly, coming to her side.
"Miss Beresford is coming with me," interposes Desmond. His face is pale, and his eyes flash ominously.