At this the young man at her feet smiles openly and presses his face unperceived against her gown; but Rossmoyne throws up his head and glances with a coldly displeased expression into the vague distance.
"Have you been here long?" asks Monica, turning to her friend.
"Very long," pettishly. Something—perhaps Rossmoyne—has annoyed the capricious beauty.
"Only a fortnight," says Mrs. Herrick, briefly. "You must know that."
"I don't judge time by days and weeks; it seems long," says Mrs. Bohun, "years,—an eternity almost!"
A sudden gloom appears to have fallen upon the group. Rossmoyne's dark face grows darker still; the smile fades from Ronayne's face, a shadow falls athwart his eyes.
"I think I like the country," says Monica, suddenly. "It is so calm, so quiet, and there are moments when the very beauty of it brings tears to my eyes."
"I love it too," says Ronayne, quickly, addressing her pointedly in a friendly tone, although no introduction has been gone through between them. "I wonder how any one who has once tasted the sweetness of it can ever again long for the heat and turmoil of the town."
"Yes, for a time it is charming, all-sufficing," says Mrs. Bohun, "but for what a little time! Perhaps,—I am not sure,—but perhaps I should like to live for three months of every year in the country. After that, I know I should begin to pine again for the smoke and smuts of my town."
"If you are already wearied, I wonder you stay here," says Lord Rossmoyne, sullenly.