"My dear Olga," says Mrs. Herrick, glancing quickly to right and left. "Do you never think?"
"As seldom as ever I can. But why be nervous, Hermia? If any one were to compare me with a tulip, I should die of—no, not chagrin—joy, I mean, of course. Monica, what are you saying to Owen?"
"I don't think I know who Owen is," says Monica, with a glance at the gentleman in question, that is half shy, half friendly.
"That argues yourself unknown," says Olga. "He is Master Owen Kelly, of Kelly's Grove, county Antrim, and the bright and shining light of the junior bar. They all swear by him in Dublin,—all, that is except the judges, and they swear at him."
Monica looks at Master Owen Kelly in a faintly puzzled fashion.
"It is all quite true," says that young man, modestly, in a reassuring tone.
"Now tell us what you were saying to each other," says Olga.
"It was nothing," returns Monica. "We were only talking about this Egyptian war. But I don't really," nervously, "understand anything about it."
"You needn't blush for your ignorance on that score," says Mr. Kelly. "You're in the general swim: nobody knows."
"It is the most senseless proceeding altogether," says Hermia Herrick, in her decided way. "Gladstone's wars are toys. He has had three of them now, dear little fellow, to amuse himself with, and he ought to be proud of his [victories]."