"I daresay," says Kelly, gently, which is rather good of him, considering his frame of mind.
"You're an awfully kind sort of fellow, Kelly, do you know?" says Ronayne, slipping his arm through his. "You are the only one I ever talk to about her. And I suppose I must bore you, though you don't say it. It's the most generous thing I know, your sympathizing with me as you do. If you were in love yourself, I could understand it. But you are not, you know."
"Oh, no; of course not," says Mr. Kelly.
"Is that your guitar, Mrs. Bohun? I wish you would sing us something," says Miss Browne at this moment.
"I don't sing much,—and never out of doors, it hurts my throat so," says Olga, smiling at her; "but if any else will sing, I will gladly play to them."
"Mr. Ronayne,—Ulic,—come here," says Monica, half shyly, but very sweetly. "You can sing, I know."
"Yes come here," says Olga, turning to him, and away from Lord Rossmoyne, who is talking to her in low, short, angry tones. But the latter, laying his hand on her arm, half compels her to turn to him again.
"Let some one else accompany him if he must sing," he says; "any one but you."
"No one else can."
"I object to your doing it."