The girls went out into the grounds. The afternoon happened to be a perfect one; the air was balmy, with a touch of the Indian summer about it. The last roses were blooming on their respective bushes; the geraniums were making a good show in the carefully laid out beds. There were clumps of asters and dahlias to be seen in every direction; some late poppies and some sweet-peas and mignonette made the borders still look very attractive, and the chrysanthemums were beginning to appear.
“In a week's time they will be splendid,” said Linda, piloting her two friends through the largest of the greenhouses.
“Do come away,” said Molly; “when Linda speaks in that prim voice she's intolerable. Come, Nora; come, Stephie—we'll just have a run by ourselves.”
Nora was still looking rather pale. The shock of the morning had caused the color to fade from her cheeks; she could not get the utterly changed O'Shanaghgan out of her head. She longed to write to her father, and yet she did not dare.
Stephanotie looked at her with the curious, keen glance which an American girl possesses.
“What is it? Do say,” she said, linking her hand inside Nora's. “Is it anything that a bon-bon will soothe, or is it past that?”
“It is quite past that; but don't ask me now, Stephie. I cannot tell you, really.”
“Don't bother her,” said Molly; “she has partly confided in me, but not wholly. We'll have a good time by ourselves. What game do you think we had best play, Stephie?”
“I'm not one for games at all,” answered Stephanotie. “Girls of my age don't play games. They are thinking seriously of the business of life—the flirtations and the jolly time they are going to have before they settle down to their staid married life. You English are so very childish.”
“And we Irish are childish too,” said Nora. “It's lovely to be childish,” she added. “I hate to put away childish things.”