But Mr. Kelly makes no reply.
A slight tinge of color deepens Mrs. Herrick's complexion as she turns to him.
"Poor Mr. Kelly!" she says, the amused flicker of a smile flitting over her face, which has now grown pale again. "What a situation! There! don't sully your conscience: I will let you off your lie. That is where an old friend comes in so useful, you see."
"At all events, I don't see where the lie would come in. But, as you do, of course I shall say nothing," says Kelly.
"What a Pygmalion!" says Olga, in high disgust. "And what a speech! Contemptible! I don't believe any Galatea would come to life beneath your touch. It would be cold as the marble itself!"
So saying, she moves away to where Monica is standing, looking quite the sweetest thing in the world, as
"A nun demure, of lowly port."
"She has prophesied truly," says Kelly, in a low tone, turning to Mrs. Herrick. "I fear my Galatea will never wake to life for me."
A subdued bell tinkles in the distance.
"Our summons," says Mrs. Herrick, hastily, as though grateful to it; and presently she is standing upon a pedestal, pale motionless, with a rapt Pygmalion at her feet, and some Pompeian vases and jugs (confiscated from the drawing-room) in the background.