And then follow the other tableaux, and then the stage is deserted, and, music sounding in the distant ballroom, every one rises and makes a step in its direction, the hearts of some of the younger guests beating in time to it.
"Where are you going?" says Ulic Ronayne, seeing Olga about to mount the stairs once more.
"To help the others to get into civilized garb,—Hermia and Monica, I mean. Lady Teazle I consider capable of looking after herself."
"H'm! you say that? I thought Miss Fitzgerald was a friend of yours."
"Then you thought like the baby you are. No! Women, like princes, find few real friends. But one in a hundred can fill that character gracefully, and Bella is not that one."
She turns to run up the stairs. "Well, don't be long," says Mr. Ronayne.
"I'll be ready in a minute," she says; and in twenty-five she really is.
Monica, who has had Kit to help her,—such an admiring, enthusiastic, flattering Kit,—is soon redressed, and has run down stairs, and nearly into Desmond's arms, who, of course, is waiting on the lowest step to receive her. She is now waltzing with him, with a heart as light as her feet.
Hermia's progress has been slow, but Miss Fitzgerald's slowest of all, the elaborate toilet and its accessories taking some time to arrange themselves; she has been annoyed, too, by Olga Bohun, during the earlier part of the evening, and consequently feels it her duty to stay in her room for a while and take it out of her maid. So long is she, indeed, that Madam O'Connor (most attentive of hostesses) feels it her duty to come upstairs to find her.
She does find her, giving way to diatribes of the most virulent, that have Olga Bohun for their theme. Mrs. Fitzgerald, standing by, is listening to, and assisting in, the defamatory speeches.