"You don't possess this cake, you know: it is Madam O'Connor's."
"Oh, Olga, why will you always press me backwards? Am I never to be nearer to you than I am now?"
"I don't see how you could conveniently be very much nearer," says Mrs. Bohun, [with] a soft laugh.
"After all, I suppose I come under the head of either madman or fool," says Ronayne, sadly. "You are everything to me; I am less than nothing to you."
"Is Lord Rossmoyne to come under the head of 'nothing'? How rude!" says Olga.
"I never thought of him. I was thinking only of how hopelessly I love you."
"Love! How should such a baby as you grasp even the meaning of that word?" says Olga, letting her white lids droop until their long lashes lie upon her cheeks like shadows, while she raises her cup with indolent care to her lips. "Do you really think you know what it means?"
"'The dredeful joy, alway that flit so yerne,
All this mene I by Love,'"
quotes he, very gently; after which he turns away, and, going over to the fireplace again, flings himself down dejectedly at Monica's feet.
"Are you tired, Mr. Ronayne?" says Monica, very gently. Something in his beautiful face tells her that matters are not going well with him.