Part 57 (1/2)
”There has been no time for fickleness.”
”There never will be, so far as I am concerned. So sure am I of that, that I do not mind praying that Cupid's curse may light upon me if ever I prove unfaithful. You know it?”
”I have but small acquaintance with cursing of any sort.”
”Then learn this one,--
'They that do change old love for new, Pray G.o.ds they change for worse!'
Will you repeat that after me?”
”Wait until I finish my tea; and--unkind as you are--you will give me a little bit of cake, won't you?”
”I would give you everything I possess, if I could.”
”You don't possess this cake, you know: it is Madam O'Connor's.”
”Oh, Olga, why will you always press me backwards? Am I never to be nearer to you than I am now?”
”I don't see how you could conveniently be very much nearer,” says Mrs.
Bohun, with a soft laugh.
”After all, I suppose I come under the head of either madman or fool,”
says Ronayne, sadly. ”You are everything to me; I am less than nothing to you.”
”Is Lord Rossmoyne to come under the head of 'nothing'? How rude!” says Olga.
”I never thought of him. I was thinking only of how hopelessly I love you.”
”Love! How should such a baby as you grasp even the meaning of that word?” says Olga, letting her white lids droop until their long lashes lie upon her cheeks like shadows, while she raises her cup with indolent care to her lips. ”Do you really think you know what it means?”
”'The dredeful joy, alway that flit so yerne, All this mene I by Love,'”
quotes he, very gently; after which he turns away, and, going over to the fireplace again, flings himself down dejectedly at Monica's feet.
”Are you tired, Mr. Ronayne?” says Monica, very gently. Something in his beautiful face tells her that matters are not going well with him.
”Tired? no,” lifting his eyes to her with a smile that belies his words.
”It is good of you to ask, though. I wish,” earnestly, ”you would not call me 'Mr. Ronayne.' I can't bear it from any one I like. Desmond tell her to call me Ulic.”
It strikes both Monica and Brian as peculiar that he should appeal to the latter as to one possessed of a certain influence over the former.
It strikes Miss Fitzgerald in the same light too, who has been listening to his impetuous entreaty.
Seeing there is something wrong with him, something that might be termed excitement in his manner, Desmond whispers to Monica to do as he desires.
”He is unhappy about something; let him feel you are his friend,” he says, in a low tone.
”Come a little farther from the fire, Ulic,--a little nearer to me,”