CHAPTER XXIV.
How Madam O'Connor [tells] how lovers throve in the good old days when she was young; and Brian Desmond thrives with his love in these our days, when he and she are young.
The day is near; the darkest hour that presages the dawn has come, and still every one is dancing, and talking, and laughing, and some are alluring, by the aid of smiles and waving fans, the hearts of men.
Kit Beresford, in spite of her youth and her closely-cropped head,—which, after all is adorable in many ways,—has secured, all to her own bow, a young man from the Skillereen Barracks (a meagre town to the west of Rossmoyne). He is a very young, young man, and is by this time quite bon comarade with the sedate Kit, who is especially lenient with his shortcomings, and treats him as though he were nearly as old as herself.
Monica is dancing with Mr. Ryde. To do him justice, he dances very well; but whether Monica is dissatisfied with him, or whether she is tenderly regretful of the fact that at this moment she might just as well—or rather better—be dancing with another, I cannot say; but certainly her fair face is clothed with a pensive expression that heightens its beauty in a considerable degree.
"Look at that girl of Priscilla Blake's," says Madam O'Connor, suddenly, who is standing at the head of the room, surrounded, as usual, by young men. "Look at her. Was there ever such a picture? She is like a martyr at the stake. That intense expression suits her."
Brian Desmond flushes a little, and Kelly comes to the rescue.
"A martyr?" he says. "I don't think Ryde would be obliged to you if he heard you. I should name him as the martyr, if I were you. Just see how hopelessly silly—I mean, sentimental—he looks."
"Yet I think she fancies him," says Lord Rossmoyne, who is one of those men who are altogether good, respectable, and dense.
"Nonsense!" says Madam O'Connor, indignantly. "What on earth would she fancy that jackanapes for, when there are good men and true waiting for her round every corner?"