"Do not be sorry for that: it has done me good, I think. I am glad I have said it out loud to somebody at last. It is odd though,—isn't it?—I should have made my confession to you, of all people, whom I never saw until ten minutes ago!"
Then Monica remembers that this is the second young man she has found herself on friendly terms with since her arrival at Moyne, without the smallest introduction having been gone through on any side. It all sounds rather dreamy, and certainly very irregular.
"Ah! there is Madam O'Connor beckoning to me," says Ronayne, rising lazily to his feet. "I suppose she wants me for a moment. Will you mind my leaving you for a little, or will you come with me? I shan't be any time."
"I shall stay here," says Monica. "There, go: she seems quite in a hurry. Come back when you can."
He runs across the grass to his hostess; and Monica, leaning back in her chair, gives herself up to thought. Everything is strange, and she is feeling a little lonely, a little distraite, and (but this she will not allow even to herself) distinctly disappointed. She is trying very hard to prevent her mind from dwelling upon a certain face that should be naught to her, when she suddenly becomes conscious of the fact that some one has come to a standstill close beside her chair. She turns.
CHAPTER VII.
How Monica listens to strange words and suffers herself to be led away.—How Cupid plants a shaft in Mars, and how Miss Priscilla finds herself face to face with the enemy.
"You see I failed," says Brian Desmond.
A quick warm blush has dyed Monica's cheeks crimson.