 Chapter 11 of Muslin This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Lesanne Lavoie of Swansea, Illinois. Muslin by George Moore, Chapter 11. Goodness me, Alice, how can you remain up here all alone and by that smoldering fire? Why don't you come downstairs? Papa says he is quite satisfied with the first part of the tune, but the second won't come right. And, as Mama had a lot to say to Lord Dungary, I and Captain Hibbert sat out in the passage together. He told me he liked the way I range my hair. Do tell me, dear, if you think it suits me. Very well indeed. But what else did Captain Hibbert say to you? Well, I'll tell you something, replied Olive, suddenly turning from the glass. But first, promise not to tell anyone. I don't know what I should do if you did. You promise? Yes, I promise. If you look as serious as that, I shall never be able to tell you. It is very wicked, I know, but I couldn't help myself. He put his arm around my waist and kissed me. Now, don't scold. I won't be scolded, the girl said, as she watched the cloud gathering on her sister's face. Oh, you don't know how angry I was. I cried. I assure you I did. And I told him he had disgraced me. I couldn't say more than that, could I now? And he promised never to do it again. It was the first time a man ever kissed me, and I was awfully ashamed. No one ever attempted to kiss you, I suppose, nor can I fancy their trying, for your cross-face would soon frighten them. But I can't look serious. And did he ask you to marry him? Oh, of course, but I haven't told Mama, for she is always talking to me about Lord Kilkani, the little Marquis, as she calls him. But I couldn't have him. Just fancy giving up, dear Edward. I assure you I believe he would kill himself if I did. He has often told me I am the only thing worth living for. Alice looked at her beautiful sister questioningly, her good sense telling her that if Olive was not intended for him it was wrong to allow her to continue her flirtation. But for the moment the consideration of her own misfortunes absorbed her. Was there nothing in life for a girl but marriage, and was marriage no more than essential gratification? Did a man seek nothing but a beautiful body that he could kiss and enjoy? Did a man's desires never turn to mating with one who could sympathize with his hopes, comfort him in his fears, and united by that most profound and penetrating of all unions, that of the soul, be collaborator in life's work? Would no man love as she did? She was ready to allow that marriage owned a material as well as a spiritual aspect and that neither could be overlooked. Some therefore, though their souls were as beautiful as the day, were from purely physical causes incapacitated from entering into the marriage state. Cecilia was such a one. Now what are you thinking about, Alice? I do not know, nothing in particular. One doesn't know always of what one is thinking. Tell me, what are they saying downstairs? But I have told you, that Captain Hibbert preferred my hair like this, and I asked you if you thought he was right, but you hardly looked. Yes I did, Olive, I think the fashion suits you. You won't tell anybody that I told you he kissed me. Oh, I had forgotten about Lord Rosshill. He has been fired at. Lord Dungaree returned from Dublin, and he brought the evening paper with him. It is full of bad news. What news, Alice asked, with a view to escaping from wearying questions. And Olive told her a bailiff's house had been broken into by an armed gang. They dragged him out of his bed, and shot him in the legs before his own door, and an attempt had been made to blow up a landlord's house with dynamite. And in Queens County, shots have been fired through a dining room window. Now what else? I am telling you a lot, I don't often remember what is in the paper. No end of Hayrex were burnt last week, and some cattle have had their tails cut off, and a great many people have been beaten. Lord Dungaree says he doesn't know how it will all end unless the government bring in a coercion act. What do you think, Alice? Alice dropped some formal remarks, and Olive hoped that the State of the Country would not affect the castle's season. She didn't know which of the St. Lettered Girls would be married first. She asked Alice to guess. Alice said she couldn't guess, and felt a thinking that nobody would ever want to marry her. It was as if some instinct had told her, and she could not drive the word celibacy out of her ears. It seemed to her that she was Fichu Ajamé, as that odious Lord Dungaree would say. She did not remember that she had ever been so unhappy before, and it seemed to her that she would always be unhappy, Fichu Ajamé. But to her surprise she awoke in a more cheerful mood, and when she came down to breakfast, Mr. Barton raised his head from the newspaper, and asked her if she had heard that Lord Rosshill had been fired at. Yes, Father, Olive told me so overnight, and the conversation turned on her headache and then on the State of Ireland. Mrs. Barton asked if this last outrage would prove sufficient to force the government to pass a new coercion bill. I wish they would put me at the head of an army. Mr. Barton said whose thoughts had gone back to his picture Julius Caesar overturning the altars of the druids? Papa would look fine, leading the landlords against the tenants dressed in Julius Caesar's big red cloak, cried Mrs. Barton, turning her back as she glided out of the room, already deep in consideration of what my lord would like to eat for luncheon, and the gown she would wear that afternoon. Mr. Barton threw the newspaper aside and returned to his studio, and in the girl's room, Olive and Barnes, the bland, soft smiling maid, began their morning gossip. Whatever subject was started it generally wound round to Captain Hibbert. Alice had wearied of his name, but this morning she pricked up her ears. She was surprised to hear her sister say she had forbidden him to ever visit the Lawlers. At that moment the dull sound of distant firing broke the stillness of the snow. I took good care to make Captain Hibbert promise not to go to the shooting party the last time I saw him. And what harm was there in his going to the shooting party? asked Alice. What harm? I suppose, miss, you have heard what kind of woman Mrs. Lawler is. Ask Barnes. You shouldn't talk in this way, Olive. We know well enough that Mrs. Lawler was not a lady before she married, but nothing can be said against her since. Oh, come there, indeed. You never heard the story about her and her steward? Ask Barnes. Oh, don't miss. You shouldn't really, said the maid. What will Miss Alice think? Never mind what she thinks. You tell her about the steward and all the officers from Gort. And then Mrs. Lawler's flirtations were talked of until the bell rang for lunch. Milord and Mrs. Barton had just passed into the dining room, and Alice noticed that his eyes often wandered in the direction of the policemen walking up and down the terrace. He returned more frequently than was necessary to the attempt made on Lord Ross Hill's life. And it was a long time before Mrs. Barton could persuade him to drop a French epigram. At last, an answer to her allusions to Knights of Olde and La Galanterie. The old lord could only say, l'amour est comme l'oeil comme le son, en dépit de danger, tous les deux patins pour les rivages céleste. A pretty conceit, but Milord was not on vain that morning. The land league had thrown its shadow over him, and it mattered little how joyously a conversation might begin. Too soon a reference was made to Griffith's valuation or the possibility of a new coercion act. In the course of the afternoon, however, much to the astonishment of Milord and Mrs. Barton in the drawing room and the young ladies who were sitting upstairs doing a little needlework, a large family carriage hung with gray trappings and drawn by two powerful bay horses drove up to the hall door. A gorgeous footman opened the door, and with a momentary display of exquisite ankle, a slim young girl stepped out. I wonder, said Mrs. Barton, that Mrs. Scully came to sense to come out with anything less than four horses and outriders. Elle voute acheter la distinction comme elle vendait du jambon. A faux poids, said Lord Dungary. Yes indeed, and to think that the woman we now receive as an equal once sold bacon and eggs behind a counter in Galway. No, it was not she, it was her mother. Well, she was hanging on to her mother's apron strings at the time. You may depend on it. This visit is not for nothing. Some things in the wind. A moment after, looking more large and stately than ever, Mrs. Scully sailed into the room. Mrs. Barton was delighted to see her. It was so good of her to come, and in such weather as this. And after having refused lunch and referred to the snow and the horse's feet, Mrs. Scully consented to lay aside her moth and boa. The young ladies withdrew when the conversation turned on the state of the county and Lord Ross Hill's fortunate escape. As they ascended the stairs, they stopped to listen to Mr. Barton, who was singing, a chez l'amour. The land league doesn't seem to affect Mr. Barton's spirits, said Violet, what a beautiful voice he has. Yes, and nobody designs pictures like Papa, but he wouldn't study when he was young, and he says he hasn't time now on account of. Now Alice, for goodness sake, don't begin. I am sick of that land league. From morning till night, it is nothing but coercion and grievous valuation. Violet and Alice laughed at Olive's petulance and, opening a door, the latter said, this is our room, and it is the only one in the house where tenants, land, and rent are never spoken of. That's something to know, said Violet. I agree with Olive. If things are bad, talking of them won't make them any better. Barnes rose from her seat. Now don't go, Barnes. Violet, this is Barnes, our maid. There was about Barnes a false heir of homeliness, but in a few moments it became apparent that her life had been spent amid muslins, confidences, and illicit conversations. Now, with motherly care, she removed a tool skirt from the table, and Violet, with quick nervous glances, examined the room. In the middle of the floor stood the large work table covered with red cloth. There was a stand with shelves, filled on one side with railway novels, on the other with worsted work, cardboard boxes, and rags of all kinds. A canary cage stood on the top, and the conversation was frequently interrupted by the piercing trilling of the little yellow bird. You're very comfortable. I should like to come and work here with you. I am sick of Fred's perpetual talk about horses, and if he isn't talking of them, his conversation is so improper that I can't listen to it. Why, what does he say? Said Olive, glancing at Barnes, who smiled benignly in the background. Oh, I couldn't repeat what he says. It's too dreadful. I have to fly from him, but he's always at the ghouls now. He and May are having a great case. Oh, yes, I know, said Olive. They never left each other at our ball. Don't you remember? Oh, of course I do. And what a jolly ball that was. I never amused myself so much in my life. If the balls at the castle are as good, they will do. But wasn't it sad, you know, about Lord Kilkarny receiving the news of his brother's murder just at that moment? I could see him now rushing out of the room. Violet's manner did not be token in the lease that she thought it's sad. And after a pause, she said, but you haven't shown me your dresses. I love the one you are at the ball. Yes, yes, I must show you my cream-colored dinner dress and my ruby dress too. You haven't seen that either, cried Olive. Come along, Barnes, come along. But I see you use your bedroom too as a sitting room, she said, as she glanced at the illustrations and a volume of dickens and threw down a volume of Shelley's poetry. Oh, that's this lady here, cried Olive. She says she cannot read in our room on account of my chattering. So she comes in here to continue her schooling. I should have thought that she had had enough of it. And she makes a place in such a mess with bits of paper. Barnes is always tidying up after her. Alice laughed constrainedly and taking the cream-colored dress out of the maid's hands, Olive explained why it suited her. Violet had much to say concerning the pink trimming and the maid referred to her late mistress's wardrobes. The ruby dress, however, drew forth many little cries of admiration. Then an argument was started concerning the color of hair and before the glass with hairpins and lithe movements of the back and loins, the girls explained their favorite coiffures. But Alice, you haven't opened your lips and you haven't shown me your dresses. Barnes will show you my dinner frocks but I don't think as much about what I wear as Olive does. Violet quickly understood but with clever dissimulation she examined and praised the black silk trimmed with red ribbons. She's angry because we didn't look at her dresses first, Olive interjected and Violet came to Alice's rescue with a question. Had they heard lately of Lord Kilkani, Olive protested that she would sooner die than accept such a little red-haired thing as that for a husband and Violet laughed delightedly. Anyway, you haven't those faults defined with a certain officer now stationed at Gort who, if report speaks truly, is constantly seen writing towards Brookfield. Well, what harm is there in that? said Olive, for she did not feel sure in her mind if she should resent or accept the gracious insinuation. None whatsoever. I only wish such luck were mine. But with the weather and Papa's difficulties with his herdsmen and his tenants we haven't seen a soul for the last month. I wish a handsome young officer would come galloping up our avenue someday. Deceived, Olive abandoned herself to the plosive charm of Violet's manner and at different times she spoke of her flirtation and told many little incidents concerning it, what he had said to her, how she had answered him, and how, the last time they had met, he had expressed his sorrow at being unable to call to see her until the end of the week. He is shooting today at the Lawlers, said Violet. That, I'm sure, he's not, said Olive, with a triumphant toss of her fair head, for I forbade him to go there. Violet smiled and Olive insisted on an explanation being given. Well, exclaimed the girl more bluntly than she had yet spoken, because as we were coming here we saw him walking along one of the covers. There were a lot of gentlemen and just fancy that dreadful woman, Mrs. Lawler, was with them, marching along, just like a man and a gun under her arm. I don't believe you, you only say that to annoy me, cried Olive, trembling with passion. I am not in the habit of telling lies and don't know why you should think I care to annoy you, Violet replied, a little too definitely and unable to control her feelings any longer, Olive walked out of the room. Barnes folded up and put away the dresses and Alice sought for words that would attenuate the unpleasantness of the scene, but Violet was quicker with her tongue and she poured out her excuses. I am so sorry, she said, but how could I know that she objected to Captain Hibbert shooting at the Lawlers or that he had promised her not to go there? I am very sorry indeed. Oh, I, it doesn't matter, said Alice hesitatingly. You know how excitable Olive is. I don't think she cares more about Captain Hibbert than anyone else. She was only a little peaked, you know, the surprise and she particularly dislikes the Lawlers. Of course, it is very unpleasant for us to live so near without being able to visit them. Yes, I understand, I am very sorry. Do you know where she is gone? I shouldn't like to go away without seeing her. I am afraid she has shut herself up in her room. Next time you meet, she'll have forgotten all about it. Elated, but at the same time a little vexed, Violet followed Alice down to the drawing-room. My dear child, what a time you had been. I thought you were never coming downstairs again, said Mrs. Gully. Now, my dear Mrs. Barton, we really must. We shall meet again, if not before, at the castle. Then Stout Mother and Thin Daughter took their leave, but the large carriage, with its sumptuous gray trappings, had not reached the crest of the hill when, swiftly unlocking her door, all have rushed barns for sympathy. Oh, the spiteful little cat, she exclaimed. I know why she said that. She's jealous of me. You heard her say she hadn't a lover. I don't believe she saw Edward at all, but she wanted to annoy me. Don't you think so, barns? I'm sure she wanted to annoy you, Miss. I could see it in her eyes. She has dreadful eyes, those cold, gray, glittering things. I could never trust them. And she has an a bit on her bones. I don't know if you notice, Miss, that when you were counting your petticoats, she was ashamed of her legs. There isn't a bit on them. And I saw her look at yours, Miss. Did you really? She's like a rail, and as spiteful as she's lean. At school, nothing made her so angry as when anyone else was praised. And you may be sure that jealousy brought her here. She heard how Captain Hibbert admired me, and so came on purpose to annoy me. You may be sure of that, Miss, said barns, as she bustled about, shutting and opening a variety of cardboard boxes. For a moment, the quarrel looked as if it were going to end here, but in Olive's brain, thoughts leaped as quickly back as forward, and she startled barns by declaring wildly that if Edward had broken his promise to her, she would never speak to him again. I don't believe that Violet would have dared to say that she saw him if it weren't true. Well, Miss, a shooting party's but a shooting party. And there was a temptation, you know, a gentleman who was fond of sport. Yes, but it isn't for the shooting he is gone, tis for Mrs. Lawler, I know it is. Not it, Miss. Always admitting that he is there, how could he think of Mrs. Lawler when he's always thinking of you? And besides, out in the snow, too. Now, I wouldn't say anything if the weather was fine, like we had last June, and they were giving each other meetings out in the park. But what did you tell me about the steward and how Mrs. Lawler fell in love with all the young men who came to her house? And what did the housemaid tell you of the walking about the passages at night and into each other's rooms? Oh, I must know if he's there. I'll find out for you in the morning, Miss. The coachman is sure to know who was at the shooting party. In the morning, it will be too late then. I must know this evening, exclaimed Olive. As she walked about the room, her light brain now flowing with jealousy and suspicion. I'll write him a letter, she said suddenly, and you must get someone to take it over. But there's nobody about. Why, it is nearly seven o'clock, said Barnes, who had begun to realize the disagreeableness and danger of the adventure she was being rapidly drawn into. If you can't, I shall go myself, cried Olive, as she sees some paper and a pencil belonging to Alice, and sat down to write a note. Dear Captain Hibbert, if you have broken your promise to me about not going to the Lawlors, I shall never be able to forgive you. Then, as through her perturbed mind, the thought gleamed that this was perhaps a little definite, she added. Anyhow, I wish to see you. Come at once and explain that what I have heard about you is not true. I cannot believe it. Yours ever and anxiously, Olive Barton. Now, somebody must take this over at once to the Lawlors. But, Miss, really, at this hour of night, too, I don't know of anyone to send. Just think, Miss, what would your ma say? I don't care what ma ma says. It would kill me to wait till morning. Somebody must go. Why can't you go yourself? It isn't more than a half mile across the fields. You won't refuse me. You won't refuse me, will you? Put on your hat and go at once. And what will the Lawlors say when they hear of it, Miss? And I am sure that if Miss Barton ever hears of it, she will, no, no, she won't. For I could not do without you, Barnes. You have only to ask if Captain Hibbert is there, and, if he is there, send the letter up and wait for an answer. Now, there's a dear. Now, do go at once. If you don't, I shall go mad. Now say you will go, or give me the letter. Yes, give it to me, and I'll go myself. Yes, I prefer to go myself. End of chapter 11, recording by LaSanne Levoix. Chapter 12 of Muzzling. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by LaSanne Levoix of Swansea, Illinois. Muzzling by George Moore. Chapter 12. The result of this missive was that, next morning, the servants whispered that someone had been out about the house on the preceding evening. Olive and Barnes sat talking for hours, and one day, unable to keep her counsel any longer, Olive told her sister what had happened. The letter that Barnes had taken across the field for her had, she declared, frightened Edward out of his senses. He had come rushing through the snow, and had spoken with her for full five minutes under her window. He loved her to distraction, and the next day, she had received a long letter, full of references to his colonel, explaining how entirely against his will and desire, he had been forced to accept the invitation to go and shoot at the Lawlers. Alice listened quietly, as if she doubted whether Captain Hibbert would have died of consumption or heartache if Olive had acted otherwise, and then advised her sister quietly, and convinced that her duty was to tell her mother everything, she waited for an occasion to speak. Mr. Barton was passing down the passage to his studio. Olive was raising upstairs to Barnes. Mrs. Barton had her hand on the drawing room door, and she looked round, surprised, when she saw that her daughter was following her. I want to speak to you, Mama. Come in, dear. Alice shut the door behind her. How bare and untidy the room looks at this season of the year, really. You and Olive ought to go into the conservatory and see if you can't get some geraniums. Yes, Mama, I will presently, but it was about Olive that I wanted to speak, said Alice, in a strained and anxious way. What a bore that girl is with her serious face, thought Mrs. Barton. But she laughed coaxingly and said, and what has my great-faced daughter to say, the learned keeper of the family's wisdom? Even more than Olive's, for they were less sincere. Mrs. Barton's trivialities jarred, and Alice's ideas had already begun to slip from her, and feeling keenly the inadequacy of her words, she said, well, Mama, I wanted to ask you if Olive is going to marry Captain Hibbert. It was now for Mrs. Barton to look embarrassed. Well, really, I don't know, nothing is arranged. I never thought about the matter. What could have made you think she was going to marry Captain Hibbert? In my opinion, they aren't at all suited to each other. Why do you ask me? Because I have heard you speak of Lord Kilkani as a man you would like Olive to marry, and if this be so, I thought I had better tell you about Captain Hibbert. I think she is very much in love with him. Oh, nonsense, it is only to kill time. A girl must amuse herself somehow. It was on Alice's lips to ask her mother if she thought such conduct quite right. But, checking herself, she said, I am afraid people are talking about it, and that surely is not desirable. But why do you come telling me these stories, she said? Why, Mama, because I thought it right to do so. The word right was unpleasant, but recovering her temper, which four years before had never failed her, Mrs. Barton returned to her sweet little flattering manners. Of course, of course, my dear girl, but you do not understand me. What I mean to say is, have you any definite reason for supposing that Olive is in love with Captain Hibbert, and that people are talking about it? I think so, Mama, said the girl, deceived by this expression of goodwill. You remember when the Scullies came here? Well, Violet was up in our room, and we were showing her our dresses. The conversation somehow turned on Captain Hibbert, and when Violet said that she had seen him that day, as they came along in the carriage, shooting with the Lawlers, Olive burst out crying and rushed out of the room. It was very awkward. Violet said she was very sorry and all that, but, Yes, yes, dear, but why was Olive angry at hearing that Captain Hibbert went out shooting with the Lawlers? Because, it appears, she had previously forbidden him to go there, you know, on account of Mrs. Lawler. And what happened then? Well, that's the worst of it. I don't mean to say it was all Olive's fault. I think she must have lost her head a little, for she sent barns over that evening to the Lawlers with a note, telling Captain Hibbert that he must come at once and explain. It was eleven o'clock at night, and they had a long talk through the window. Mrs. Barton did not speak for some moments. The peat fire was falling into masses of white ash, and she thought vaguely of putting on more turf. Then her attention was caught by the withering ferns and the flower glasses. Then by the soaking pasturelands. Then by the spiky branches of the chestnut trees, swinging against the gray dead sky. But tell me, Alice, she said at last, for of course it is important that I should know. Do you think that Olive is really in love with Captain Hibbert? She told me, as we were going to bed the other night, Mama, that she never could care for anyone else, and, and, and what, dear? I don't like to betray my sister's confidence, Alice answered, but I'm sure I had better tell you all. She told me that he had kissed her many times and no later than yesterday in the conservatory. Indeed. You did very well to let me know of this, said Mrs. Barton, becoming as earnestly inclined as her daughter, Alice. I am sorry that Olive was so foolish. I must speak to her about it. This must not occur again. I think that if you were to tell her to come down here, oh no, Mama, Olive would know at once that I had been speaking about her affairs. You must promise me to make only an indirect use of what I have told you. Of course, of course, my dear Alice, no one shall ever know what has passed between us. You can depend upon me. I will not speak to Olive till I get a favorable opportunity. And now I have to go and see after the servants. Are you going upstairs? On Alice, tense with the importance of the explanation, this dismissal fell not a little chillingly, but she was glad that she had been able to induce her mother to consider the matter seriously. A few minutes passed dreamily, almost unconsciously. Mrs. Barton threw two sods of turf on the fire and resumed her thinking. Her first feeling of resentment against her eldest daughter had vanished and now she thought solely of the difficulty she was in and how she could best extricate herself from it. So, Olive was foolish enough to allow Captain Hibbe to kiss her in the conservatory, Mrs. Barton murmured to herself. The morality of the question interested her profoundly. She had never allowed anyone to kiss her before she was married and she was full of pity and presentiment for the future of a young girl who could thus compromise herself. But in Olive's love for Captain Hibbe, Mrs. Barton was concerned only so far as it affected the labor and time that would have to be expended in persuading her to cease to care for him. That this was the right thing to do Mrs. Barton did not for a moment doubt. Her daughter was a beautiful girl. Would probably be the bell of the season. Therefore, to allow her at 19 to marry a thousand a year captain would be, Mrs. Barton thought, to prove herself incapable, if not criminal, in the performance of the most important duty of her life. Mrs. Barton trembled when she thought of the sending of the letter. If the story were to get wind in Dublin, it might wreck her hopes of the Marquise. Therefore, to tell Barnes to leave the house would be fatal. Things must be managed gently, very gently. Olive must be talked to. How far her heart was engaged in the matter must be found out. And she must be made to see the folly, the madness of risking her chance of winning a coronet for the sake of a beggardly thousand a year captain. And good heavens, the chaperons. What would they say of her, Mrs. Barton? We're a such a thing to occur. Mrs. Barton turned from the thought in horror and then out of the soul of the old coquette arose full-fledged, the chaperon, the satellite whose light and glory is dependent on that of the fixed star around which she revolves. At this moment, Olive, her hands filled with ferns, bounced into the room. Oh, here you are, Mama. Alice told me you wanted a few ferns and flowers to brighten up the room. I hope you haven't got your feet wet, my dear. If you have, you had better go up at once and change. Olive was now more than ever like her father. Her shoulders had grown wider and the blonde head and scarlet lips had gained a summer brilliance and beauty. Now I am not wet, she said, looking down at her boots. It isn't raining, but if it were, Alice would send me out all the same. Where is she now? Up in her room reading, I suppose. She never stirs out of it. I thought when we came home from school the last time that we would be better friends, but do you know what I think? Alice is a bit sulky. What do you think, Mama? To talk of Alice, to suggest that she was a little jealous, to explain the difficulty of the position she occupied, to commiserate and lavish much pity upon her was, no doubt, a fascinating subject of conversation. It had burned in the brains of mother and daughter for many months, but too wise to compromise herself with her children, Mrs. Barton resisted the temptation to gratify a vindictiveness that wrangled in her heart. She said, Alice has not yet found her beau, Cavalier. We shall see when we are at the castle if she will remain faithful to her books. I am afraid that Ms. Alice will then prefer some gay, dashing young officer to her ma mion and her Lara. I should think so indeed. She says that the only man she cares to speak to in the county is Dr. Reed, that little frumpy fellow with his medicines. I can't understand her. I couldn't care for anyone but an officer. This was the chance, Mrs. Barton required, and she instantly availed herself of it. The red coat fever, she exclaimed, waving her hands. There is no one like officers pour faire passer les temps. Yes, ma, cried Olive, proud of having understood so much French, does in time pass quickly with them. It flies, my dear, and they fly away, and then we take up with another. They are all nice. Their profession makes them that. But some are nicer than others. For instance, I am sure they are not all as handsome as Captain Hibbert. Oh, indeed they are, said Mrs. Barton, laughing, wait until we get to Dublin. You have no idea what charming men we shall meet there. We shall find a lord or an earl, or perhaps a marquis who will give a coroneted carriage to my beautiful girl to drive in. Olive tossed her head and her mother looked at her admiringly, and there was love in the sweet brown deceit of the melting eyes, a hard, worldly affection, but a much warmer one than any Mrs. Barton could feel for Alice, in whom she saw nothing but failure, and in the end, spiritual spinsterhood. After a pause, she said, what a splendid match Lord Kilkani would be, and where would he find a girl like my Olive to do the honors of his house? Oh, Mama, I never could marry him. And why not, my dear girl? I don't know. He's a silly little fool, besides, I like Captain Hibbert. Yes, you like Captain Hibbert, so do I, but a girl like you could not throw herself away on a thousand-a-year captain in the army. And why not, Mama, said Olive, who had already begun to whimper? Captain Hibbert loves me, I know, very dearly, and I like him. He is a very good family, and he has enough to support me. The moment was a supreme one, and Mrs. Barton hesitated to strike and bring the matter to a head. Would it be better, she asked herself, to let things go by and use her influence for the future in one direction? After a brief pause, she decided on the former course, she said, my dear child, neither your father nor myself could ever consent to see you throw yourself away on Captain Hibbert. I am afraid you have seen too much of him and have been led away into caring for him. But take my word for it, a girl's love is only a fleur de peau. When you have been to a few of the castle balls, you'll soon forget all about him. Remember, you are not twenty yet, it would be madness. Oh, Mama, I didn't think you were so cruel, exclaimed Olive, and she rushed out of the room. Mrs. Barton made no reply, but her resolve was rapidly gaining strength in her mind. Olive's flirtation was to be brought at once to a close. Captain Hibbert, she would admit no more, and the girl was in turn to be wheedled and coerced. Nor did Mrs. Barton for a moment doubt that she would succeed. She had never tasted failure, and she stayed only a moment to regret, for she was too much a woman of the world to waste time in considering her mistakes. The needs of the moment were ever present to her, and now she devoted herself entirely to the task of consoling her daughter. Barnes, too, was well instructed, and henceforth she spoke only of the girls, Dukes, lords, and princes, who were waiting for Olive at the castle. In the afternoon, Mrs. Barton called Olive into the drawing room, where woman was represented as a triumphant creature, walking over the heads and hearts of men. Le genet de la femme est la boutée, declared my lord, and again. Le queue de l'homme ne pousse à lire, qui est des pieds de stade pour l'idol. Oh, my lord, my lord, said Mrs. Barton. So, in worshiping us, you are idolaters. I'm ashamed of you. Pardon, pardon, madame. Divan de nomor faux en est idolatré, mais à l'hôtel d'une vraie en est chrétien. And in such lugubrious gaiety, the girl grieved. Captain Hibbard had been refused admission. He had written, but his letters had been intercepted. And holding them in her hand, Mrs. Barton explained that she could not consent to such a marriage, and continued to dazzle the girl with the vision of the honors that awaited the future Marchioness of Kilkining. An engaged girl is not noticed at the castle. You don't know what nice men you'll meet there. Have your fun out first, where the arguments most frequently put forward, and in the excitement of breaking off Olive's engagement, even the land league was forgotten. Olive hesitated, but at length allowed herself to be persuaded to at least try to captivate the Marquis before she honored the captain with her hand. No sooner said than done. Mrs. Barton lost not a moment in writing to Captain Hibbard, asking him to come and see them the following day, if possible, between 11 and 12. She wanted to speak to him on a matter which had lately come to her knowledge, and which had occasioned her a good deal of surprise. End of Chapter 12, recording by Lysanne Lavoie. Chapter 13 of Muslin. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Lysanne Lavoie of Swansea, Illinois. Muslin by George Moore, Chapter 13. Mr. Barton could think of nothing but the muscles of the strained back of a dying Britain and a Roman soldier who cut the cords that bound the white captive to the sacrificial oak, but it would be no use returning to the studio until these infernal tenants were settled with, and he loitered about the drawing room windows, looking pale, picturesque, and lymphatic. His lack of interest in his property irritated Mrs. Barton. Darling, you must try to get them to take 25%. At times, she strove to prompt the arguments that should be used to induce the tenants to accept the proper debatement, but she could not detach her thoughts from the terrible interview she was about to go through with Captain Hibbert. She expected him to be violent. He would insist on seeing Olive, and she watched wearily the rain dripping from the wooden edges of the veranda. The last patches of snow melted, and at last a car was seen approaching, closely followed by another, bearing four policemen. Here's your agent, exclaimed Mrs. Barton hurriedly. Don't bring him in here. Go out and meet him, and when you see Captain Hibbert, welcome him as cordially as you can. But don't speak to him of Olive, and don't give him time to speak to you. Say you are engaged. I don't want Mr. Scully to know anything about this break-off. It is most unfortunate you didn't tell me you were going to meet your tenants today. However, it is too late now. Very well, my dear, very well, said Mr. Barton, trying to find his hat. I would, I assure you, give twenty pounds to be out of the whole thing. I can't argue with those fellows about their rents. I think the government ought to let us fight it out. I should be very glad to take the command of a flying column of landlords and make a dash into Connemara. I have always thought my military genius more allied to that of Napoleon than to that of Wellington. It was always difficult to say how far Mr. Barton believed in the extravagant remarks he was in the habit of giving utterance to. He seemed to be aware of their absurdity, without, however, relinquishing all belief in their truth. And now, as he picked his way across the wet stones, his pale hair blown about in the wind, he presented a strange contrast with the short-set man who had just jumped down from the car, his thick legs encased in gators and a long ulster about them. Are you due, Barton? he exclaimed. Do you knew that I think things are getting worse instead of better? There's been another bail of shot in meal. And we've had the process server nearly beaten to death down your side of the country. God! I was out with the sole sheriff and fifty police trying to serve notices on Lord Russell's estate. And we heard to come back as we went. Shits blaring of horns you never heard in your leaf. The whole country was up and they with a trench cut across the road as wide as a canal. Well, what do you think we had better do with these fellows? Do you think they will take the 20%? It is impossible to say, God, their leg is getting stronger every day, Barton. But they ought to take it, 20% will bring it very near to Griffiths. But if they don't take it? Well, I don't know what we would do for a notice as it is impossible to serve, God. I would never forget how we would pill to the other day. Such firing of stones, such blaring of horns, I think you'd have to give them the 30, but we'll try them at 25. And if they won't take it? But the 30, they'll take that and jump in. You'll needn't fear. Here they come. Turning, the two men watched the 20 or 30 peasants who, with heads set against the gusts, advanced steadily up the avenue, making way for a horseman. And from the drawing room window, Mrs. Barton recognized the square set shoulders of Captain Hibbert. After shaking hands and speaking a few words with Mr. Barton, he trotted round to the stables, and when he walked back and entered the house in all the clean-cut elegance of military boots and trousers, the peasants lifted their hats and the interview began. Now, boys, said Mr. Barton, who thought that a little familiarity would not be inappropriate? I've asked you to meet me so we might come to some agreement about the rents. We've known each other a long time and my family has been on this estate. I don't know for how many generations. Therefore, why? Of course, I should be very sorry if we had any falling out. I don't know much about farming, but I hear everyone say that this has been a capital year and I think I cannot do better than to make you again the same offer as I made you before. That is to say, of 25%. Abatement all around that will bring your rents down to grievous valuation. Mr. Barton had intended to be very impressive, but feeling that words were betraying him, he stopped short and waited anxiously to hear what answer the peasant who had stepped forward would make. The old man began by removing a battered tall hat out of which fell a red handkerchief. The handkerchief was quickly thrown back into the crown and, at an intimation for Mr. Barton, hat and handkerchief were replaced upon the white head. He then commenced. New year on, the rents is too high. We cannot pay the prison rent, at least without a reduction. I have been a tenant on the property in my father's before me for the past 50 years. It was in 43 that the rents was rose in the time of your father, the lord of mercy on his soul. But he had an age old who was a hard man and he rose the rents. And since then we have been in poverty, living on jail or mail in parties and parties is watery. There is a new diet in them, your honor. And if your owner will come down and walk the land yourself, you see I am spaking the truth. We ask nothing better than you should walk the land yourself. There is two acres of my land, your honor, flooded for the three months of the year. And for that land I am paying 25 shillings an acre. I have my receipts paid down to the last gildee. And still speaking, the old man fumbled in his pockets and produced a large pile of papers which he strove to push into Mr. Barton's hand, alluding all the while to the losses he had sustained. Two pigs had died on him and he had lost a fine mare and foal. His loquacity was, however, cut short by a sturdy middle-aged peasant standing next to him. And I owe you two, your honor, in paying four even 20 pounds for the same flooded land. Your honor, you can come down any day and see it. It is not worth, to me, more than 15 shillings an acre at the bare outset. But it can be drained for there is a fall into the mare and stream betwixt your owner's property and the Miss Brennan's. He wouldn't cost more than 40 pound and the Miss Brennan's would pay half if your owner would pay the other. Mr. Barton listened patiently to those peasant-like digressions while Mrs. Barton listened patiently to the captain's fervent declarations of love. He had begun by telling her of the anguish it had caused him to have been denied and three times running admittance to Brookfield. One whole night he had laid awake wondering what he had done to offend them. Mrs. Barton could imagine how he had suffered for she, he ventured to say, must have long since guessed what were his feelings for her daughter. We were very sorry to have been out and it is so unusual that we should be, said Mrs. Barton, leaning forward her face insinuatingly. But you were speaking of Olive. We say here that there is no one like LeBeau Capitaine. No one so handsome. No one so nice. No one so galant. And, and here Mrs. Barton laughed merrily, for she thought the bitterness of life might be so cunningly wrapped up in sweet compliments that both could be taken together like sugared medicine in one child-like gulp. There is, of course, no one I should prefer to LeBeau Capitaine. There is no one to whom I would confide my Olive more willingly. But then one must look to other things. One cannot live entirely on love, even if it be the love of a beau Capitaine. Nevertheless, the man's face darkened. The eyebrows contracted. The straight white nose seemed to grow straighter and he twirled his mustache angrily. I am aware, my dear Mrs. Barton, that I cannot give your daughter the position I should like to, but I am not as poor as you seem to imagine. Independent of my pay, I have a thousand a year. Mrs. Barton has, if I be not mistaken, some money of her own, and as I shall get my majority within the next five years, I may say that we shall begin life upon something more than fifteen hundred a year. It is true that I have led you to believe that Olive has money, but Irish money can no longer be counted upon. Were Mr. Barton to create a charge on his property, how would it be possible for him to guarantee the payment of the interest in such times as the present? We are living on the brink of a precipice. We do not know what is and what is not our own. The land league is ruining us and the government will not put it down. This year the tenants may pay at twenty percent reduction, but next year they may refuse to pay at all. Look out there. You see they are making their own terms with Mr. Barton. I should be delighted to give you thirty percent if I could afford it, said Mr. Barton, as soon as the question of reduction that had been lost sight of in schemes for draining and discussion concerning bad seasons had been re-established. But you must remember that I have to pay charges and my creditors won't wait any more than yours will. If you refuse to pay your rents and I get sold out, you will have another landlord here. You'll ruin me, but you won't do yourselves any good. You will have some Englishman here who will make you pay your rents. An Englishman here, exclaimed a peasant. Arra, he'll go back quicker than he came. Maybe he wouldn't go back at all, cried another chuckling. Who he'd make an Irishman of him for ever? Be God. We'd make him wear the green and the real harness and a fine scroll it would be, said a third. The witticism was greeted with a roar of laughter and upon this expression of a somewhat verdant patriotism, the dispute concerning the reduction was resumed. Give us the land all round at the government valuation, said a man in the middle of the group. Hey, you are only 15% above the valuation, cried Mr. Scully. For a moment, this seemed to create a difference of opinion among the peasants, but the League had drawn them too firmly together to be thus easily divided. They talked amongst themselves in Irish, then the old man said, We can't take less than 30 year-runner, the League won't let us. I can't give you more than 20. Then, let us come on home, then, no useless waste in our time here, cried a sturdy peasant, who, although he had spoken but seldom, seemed to exercise an authority over the others. With one accord they followed him, but rushing forward, Mr. Scully seized him by the arm saying, Northern boys, come back, come back. He'll settle with you right enough if you listen to reason. From the drawing room window, Mrs. Barton watched the conflict. On one side she saw her daughter's beautiful white face becoming the prize of a penniless officer. On the other she saw the pretty furniture, the luxurious idleness, the very silk dress on her back, being torn from them and distributed among a crowd of Irish-speaking, pig-keeping peasants. She could see that some new and important point was being argued, and it was with a wrench she detached her thoughts from the pantomime that was being enacted within her view, and turning to Captain Hibbert said, You see? You see what is happening? We are, that is to say, we may be ruined at any moment by this wicked agitation. As I have said before, there is no one I should like so much as yourself, but in the face of such a future, how could I consent to give you my daughter? That is to say, I could not unless you could settle at least a thousand a year upon her, she has been brought up in every luxury. That may be, Mrs. Barton. I hope to give her quite as comfortable a home as any she has been accustomed to, but a thousand a year is impossible. I haven't got it, but I can settle five hundred on her, and there's many a piresse of the realm who hasn't that. Of course, five hundred a year is very little. No one feels it more than I. For had I the riches of the world, I should not consider them sufficient to create a place worthy of Olive's beauty. But love must be allowed to count for something, and I think, yes, I can safely say, she will never find. Yes, I know, I am sure, but it cannot be. Then you mean to say that you will sacrifice your daughter's happiness for the sake of a little wretched pride? Why press the matter further? Why cannot we remain friends? Friends, yes, I hope we shall remain friends, but I will never consent to give up Olive. She loves me, I know she does. My life is bound up in hers. No, I'll never consent to give her up, and I know she won't give me up. Olive has laughed and flirted with you, but it was only pour passer les temps, and I may as well tell you that you are mistaken when you think that she loves you. Olive does love me, I know she does, and I'll not believe she does not, at least, until she tells me so. I consider I am engaged to her, and I must beg of you, Mrs. Barton, to allow me to see her and hear for her own lips what she has to say on this matter. With the eyes of one about to tempt fortune adventurously, like one about to play a bold card for a high stake, Mrs. Barton looked on the tall, handsome man before her, and, impersonal as were her feelings, she could not but admire, for the space of one swift thought, the pale, aristocratic face now alive with passion. Could she depend upon Olive to say no to him? The impression of the moment was that no girl would. Nevertheless, she must risk the interview and gliding towards the door she called, and then, as a cloud that grows bright in the sudden sunshine, the man's face glowed with delight at the name, and a moment after, white and drooping like a cut flower, the girl entered. Captain Hibbert made a movement as if he were going to rush forward to meet her. She looked as if she would have opened her arms to receive him, but Mrs. Barton's words fell between them like a sword. Olive, she said, I hear you are engaged to Captain Hibbert. Is it true? Startled in the drift of her emotions and believing her confidence had been betrayed, the girl's first impulse was to deny the impeachment. No absolute promise of marriage had she given him, as she said. No, Mama, I am not engaged. Did Edward, I mean, Captain Hibbert, say I was engaged to him? I am sure. Didn't you tell me, Olive, that you loved me better than anyone else? Didn't you even say you could never love anyone else? If I had thought that, I knew my daughter would not have engaged herself to you, Captain Hibbert, without telling me of it. As I have told you before, we all like you very much, but this marriage is impossible, and I will never consent, at least for the present, to an engagement between you. Olive, have you nothing to say? I will not give you up unless you tell me yourself that I must do so. Oh, Mama, what shall I do? Said Olive, bursting into a passionate flood of tears. Say what I told you to say, whispered Mrs. Barton. You see, Edward, that Mama won't consent, at least not for the present, to our engagement. This was enough for Mrs. Barton's purpose, and, soothing her daughter with many words, she led her to the door. Then, confronting Captain Hibbert, she said, There is never any use in forcing on these violent scenes. As I have told you, there is no one I should prefer to yourself. We always say here that there is no one like Le Beau, Captain, but, in the face of these bad times, how can I give you my daughter? And you soldiers forget so quickly. In a year's time, you'll have forgotten all about Olive. That is a true, I shall never forget her. I cannot forget her, but I will consent to wait if you will consent to our being engaged. No, Captain Hibbert, I think it is better not. I do not approve of those long engagements. Then you'll forget what has passed between us, and let us be the same friends as we were before. I hope we shall always remain friends, but I do not think, for my daughter's peace of mind, it would be advisable for us to see as much of each other as we have hitherto done. And I hope you will promise me not to communicate with my Olive in any way. Why should I enter into promises with you, Mrs. Barton, when you decline to enter into any with me? Mrs. Barton did not look as if she intended to answer this question. The conversation had fallen, and her thoughts had gone back to the tenants and the reduction that Mr. Scully was now persuading them to accept. He talked apart, first with one, then with another. His square bluff figure in a long coarse ulster stood out in strong relief against the green grass and the evergreens. Then it is decided, dear P, at 24th percent, said Mr. Scully. Then, Captain Hibbert, said Mrs. Barton a little sternly, I am very sorry indeed that we can't agree, but after what has passed between us today, I do not think you would be justified in again trying to see my daughter. Big Adson, they were all against me for aggrayen to take the 24th, whispered the well-to-do tenant who was talking to the agent. I fail to understand, said Captain Hibbert haughtily, that Mrs. Barton said anything that would lead me to suppose that she wished me to give her up. However, I do not see that anything would be gained by discussing this matter further. Good morning, Mrs. Barton. Good morning, Captain Hibbert, and Mrs. Barton smiled winningly as she rang the bell for the servant to show him out. When she returned to the window, the tenants were following Mr. Scully into the rent office and with a feeling of real satisfaction, she murmured to herself, well, after all, nothing ever turns out as badly as we expected. End of chapter 13, recorded by LaSanne LaVoy. Chapter 14 of Muslin. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by LaSanne LaVoy of Swansea, Illinois. Muslin, by George Moore. Chapter 14. But although Mrs. Barton had bitten the captain away, Olive's sorrowful looks haunted the house. A white weary profile was seen on the staircase, a sigh was heard when she left the room, and when, after hours of absence, she was sought for, she was found lying at full length, crying upon her bed. My dear, it distresses me to see you in this state. You really must get up. I cannot allow it. There's nothing that spoils one's good looks like unhappiness. Instead of being the bell of the season, you'll be a complete wreck. I must insist on your getting up and trying to interest yourself in something. Oh, mama, don't, don't. I wish I were dead. I am sick of everything. Sick of everything, said Mrs. Barton laughing. Why, my child, you have tasted nothing yet. Wait until we get to the castle. You'll see what a lot of Captain Hibberts there will be after this pretty face. That's to say, if you don't spoil it in the meantime with fretting. But mama, she said, how can I help thinking of him? There's nothing to do here. One never hears of anything but that horrid land league, whether the governments will or will not help the landlords, whether Paddy so-and-so will or will not pay his rent. I am sick of it. My lord comes to see you and Alice likes reading books and papa has his painting. But I have nothing since you said Captain Hibberts away. Yes, yes, my beautiful olive flower. It is a little dull for you at present and to think that this wicked agitation should have begun the very season you were coming out. Who could have foreseen such a thing? But come, my pet, I cannot allow you to ruin your beautiful complexion with foolish tears. You must get up. Unfortunately, I can't have you in the drawing room. I have to talk business with my lord, but you can go out for a walk with Alice. It isn't raining today. Oh, no, I couldn't go out to walk with Alice. It would bore me to death. She never talks about anything that interests me. Vanished, the sweet pastel-like expression of Mrs. Barton's features, lost in a foreseeing of the trouble this plain girl would be. Partners would have to be found and to have her dragging after her all through the castle season would be intolerable. And all these heirs of virtue and injured innocence, how insupportable they were. Alice, as far as Mrs. Barton could see, was fit for nothing. Even now, instead of helping to console her sister and win her thoughts away from Captain Hibbert, she shut herself up to read books. Such a taste for reading and moping she had never seen in a girl before. Voila, un type de vieille fille. Whom did she take after? Certainly not after her mother, nor yet her father. But what was the good of thinking of the tiresome girl? There were plenty of other things far more important to consider. And the first thing of all was how to make Alice forget Captain Hibbert. On this point, Mrs. Barton was not quite satisfied with the manner in which she had played her part. Alice's engagement had been broken off by two violent means. And nothing was more against her nature than to use her own expression, brusquée les choses. Early in life, Mrs. Barton discovered that she could amuse men. And since then, she had devoted herself assiduously to the cultivation of this talent. And the divorce between herself and her own sex was from the first complete. She not only did not seek to please, but she made no attempt to conceal her aversion from the society of women and her preference for those forms of entertainment where they were found in fewest numbers. Balls were, therefore, never much to her taste. At the dinner table, she was freer. But it was on the race course that she reigned supreme. From the box seat of a drag, the white hands were waved. The cajoling lap was set going. And fashionably dressed men, with race glasses about their shoulders, came crowding and climbing about her like bees about their queen. Mrs. Barton had passed from flotation to flotation without a violent word. With a wave of her hands, she had called the man she wanted. With a wave of her hands and a tickle of the bell-like laugh, she had dismissed him. As nothing had cost her a sigh, nothing had been denied her. But now all was going wrong. Olive was crying and losing her good looks. Mr. Barton had received a threatening letter. And, in consequence, had for a week passed been unable to tune his guitar. Poor Lord Dungaree was being bore to death by policemen and proselytizing daughters. Everything was going wrong. This phrase recurred in Mrs. Barton's thoughts as she reviewed the situation. Her head leaned in the pose of the most plaintiff of the pastels that Lord Dungaree had commissioned his favorite artist to execute in imitation of the Lady Hamilton portraits. And now, his finger on his lip, like Harlequin, glancing after Columbine, the old gentleman who had entered on tiptoe, exclaimed, Instantly, the silver lap was set atingling and, with delightful gestures, my Lord was led captive to the sofa. Mrs. Barton declared as she settled her skirts over her ankles. Chache, exclaimed Mrs. Barton, bursting with laughter and placing her hand, which was instantly fervently kissed upon my Lord's mouth, she said. I will hear no more of that wicked poetry. What, hear no more of the divine Alfred de Muset, my Lord answered, as if a little discouraged. Hush, hush! Alice entered, having come from her room to fetch her book, but seeing the couple on the sofa, she tried to retreat, adding to her embarrassment and to theirs by some ill-expressed excuses. Don't run away like that, said Mrs. Barton. Don't behave like a charity schoolgirl. Come in. I think you know, Lord Dungary. Oh, this is the studious one, said my Lord, as he took Alice affectionately with both hands and drew her towards him. Now look at this fair brow. I am sure there is poetry here. I was just speaking to your mother about Alfred de Muset. He is not quite proper. It is true for you girls. But oh, what passion. He is the poet of passion. I suppose you love Byron? Yes, but not so much as Shelly and Keats, said Alice enthusiastically, forgetting for the moment her aversion to the speaker in the allusion to her favorite pursuit. The study of Shelly is the fashion of the day. You know, I suppose, the little piece entitled Love's Philosophy. The fountains mingle with the river, the river with the ocean. You know, nothing in the world is single, all things by a law divine in one another's being mingle. Why not I with thine? Oh, yes, and the sensitive plant. Is it not lovely? There is your book, my dear. You must run away now. I have to talk with my Lord about important business. My Lord looked disappointed in being thus interrupted in his quotations, but he allowed himself to be led back to the sofa. I beg your pardon for a moment, said Mrs. Barton, who may sudden thought had struck, and she followed her daughter out of the room. Instead of wasting your time reading all this love poetry, Alice, it would be much better if you would devote a little of your time to your sister. She is left all alone. And you know, I don't care that she should always be in Barnes's society. But what am I to do, Mama? I have often asked Alice to come out with me, but she says I don't amuse her. I want you to win her thoughts away from Captain Hibbert, say Mrs. Barton. She is grieving her heart out and will be a wreck before we go to Dublin. Tell her you heard at Dungary Castle that he was flirting with other girls, that he is not worth thinking about, and that the Marquise is in love with her. But that would be scarcely the truth, Mama, Alice replied hesitatingly. Mrs. Barton gave her daughter one quick look, bit her lips, and, without another word, returned to my lord. Everything was decidedly going wrong, and to be annoyed by that gawk of a girl in a time like the present was unbearable. But Mrs. Barton never allowed her temper to master her. And in two minutes all memory of Alice had passed out of her mind, and she was talking business with Lord Dungary. Many important questions had to be decided. It was known that mortgages, jointures, legacies, and debts of all kinds had reduced the Marquise's income to a minimum, and that he stood in urgent need of a little ready money. It was known that his relations looked to an heiress to rehabilitate the family fortune. Mrs. Barton hoped to dazzle him with Olive's beauty. But it was characteristic of her to wish to bake the hook on every side, and she hoped that a little gilding of it would silence the chorus of scorn and dissent that she knew would be raised against her when once her plans became known. 4,000 pounds might be raised on the Brookville property, but if this sum could be multiplied by five, Mrs. Barton felt she would be going into the matrimonial market armed to the teeth and prepared to meet all comers. And seeking the solution of this problem, Milord and Mrs. Barton sat on the sofa, drawn up close together, their knees touching. He, although gracious and urbane as was his want, seemed more than usually thoughtful. She, although as charming and cajoling as ever, in the pauses of the conversation allowed an expression of anxiety to cloud her bright face. 15,000 pounds required a good deal of accounting for, but after many arguments had been advanced on either side, it was decided that she had made, within the last seven years, many successful investments. She had commenced by winning 500 pounds at racing, and this money had been put into Mexican railways. The speculation had proved an excellent one, and then with a few Aryan casual references to Hudson Bay, Grand Trunks, and shares in Steamboats, it was thought the creation of Olive's fortune could be satisfactorily explained to a not too exacting society. Three or four days after, Mrs. Barton surprised the young ladies by visiting them in the sitting room. Barnes was working at the machine. Olive stood drumming her fingers idly against the windowpane. Just fancy seeing you, mama. I was looking out for my lord. He is a little late today. Is he not? Said Olive. I do not expect him today. He is suffering from a bad cold. This weather is dreadfully trying. But how snug you are in your little room, and Alice is absolutely doing needlework. I wonder what I am doing wrong now, thought the girl. Barnes left the room. Mrs. Barton threw some turf upon the fire, and she looked round. Her eyes rested on the cardboard boxes, on the bodice left upon the work table, on the book that Alice had laid aside, and she spoke of these things, evidently striving to interest herself in the girl's occupation. At length, she said. If the weather clears up, I think we might all go for a drive. There is really no danger. The land league never has women fired at. We might go and see the Brennans. What do you think, Olive? I don't care to go off to see a pack of women, the girl replied, still drumming her fingers on the window pane. Now, Olive, don't answer so crossly, but come and sit down here by me. And to make room for her, Mrs. Barton moved the mirror to Alice. So my beautiful Olive doesn't care for a pack of women, said Mrs. Barton. Olive does not like a pack of women. She would prefer a handsome young lord, or a duke, or an earl. Olive turned up her lips contemptuously, for she guessed her mother's meaning. What curious lives those girls do lead cooped up there by themselves with their little periodical trip up to the Shelbourne Hotel. Of course, the two young ones never could have done much. They never opened their lips, but Gladys is a nice girl in her way, and she has some money of her own. I wonder if she wasn't picked up. I should like to know who would care for her. She had a very good chance once, but she wouldn't say yes, and she wouldn't say no. And she kept him hanging after her until at last off he went and married someone else, a Mr. Blake, I think. Yes, that was his name, and why wouldn't she marry him? Well, I don't know. Folly, I suppose. He was, of course, not so young as Harry Rendley, but he had 2,000 a year, and he would have made her an excellent husband, kept a carriage for her and a house in London. Whereas you see she has remained, Ms. Brennan, goes up every year to the Shelbourne Hotel to buy dresses and gets older and more withered every day. I know they lead a stupid life down here, but mightn't they go abroad and travel? Ask Alice, they are no longer so very young. A woman can do nothing until she is married, Mrs. Barton answered decisively. But some husbands treat their wives infamously. Is it no husband better than a bad husband? I don't think so, returned Mrs. Barton, and she glanced sharply at her daughter. I would sooner have the worst husband in the world than no husband, then settling herself like a pleader who has come to the incisive point of his argument, she continued. A woman is absolutely nothing without a husband. If she doesn't wish to pass for a failure, she must get a husband, and upon this all her ideas should be set. I have always found that in this life we can only hope to succeed in what we undertake by keeping our minds fixed on it and never letting it out of sight until it is attained. Keep on trying, that is my advice to all young ladies. Try to make yourselves agreeable, try to learn how to amuse men, flatter them. That is the great secret. 19 out of 20 will believe you, and the one that doesn't, can't but think it delightful. Don't waste your time thinking of your books, your painting, your accomplishments. If you were Jane Austen's, George Elliott's and Rosa Bonner's, it would be of no use if you weren't married. A husband is better than talent, better even than fortune. Without a husband, a woman is nothing. With a husband, she may rise to any height. Marriage gives a girl liberty, gives her admiration, gives her success. A woman's whole position depends upon it, and while we are on the subject, it is as well to have one say, and I speak for you both. You, Alice, are too much inclined to shrink into the background and waste your time with books. And you too, Olive, are behaving very foolishly, wasting your time and your complexion over a silly, girlish flirtation. There's no use talking about that. You have forbidden him the house. You can't do anymore. No, Olive, all I did was to insist that he should not come running after you until you have had time to consider the sacrifices you were making for him. I have no one's interest in the world, my dear girl, but your interests. Officers are all very well to laugh, talk, and flirt with, pour pas c'est le temps. But I couldn't allow you to throw yourself away on the first man you meet. You will meet hundreds of others quite as handsome and as nice at the castle. I could never care for anyone else. Wait until you have seen the others. Besides, what do you want to be engaged to him? And I should like to know what is the use of my taking an engaged girl up to the castle. No one would look at you. Olive raised her eyes in astonishment. She had not considered the question from this point of view and the suggestion that, if engaged, she might as well stop at home for no one would look at her, filled her with alarm. Whereas, said Mrs. Barton, who saw that her words had the intended effect, if you were free, you would be the season's beauty. Nothing would be thought of but you. You would have lords and earls and marquesises dancing attendance on you, begging you to dance with them. You would be spoken of in the papers, described as the new beauty and whatnot. And then, if you were free, here Mrs. Barton heaved a heavy sigh and, letting her white hand fall over the arm of the chair, she seemed to abandon herself to the unsearchable decrees of destiny. Well, what then, Mama, asked Olive excitedly, I am free, am I not? Then you could outstrip the other girls and go away with the great prize. They are all watching him. He will go to one of you for certain. I hear that Mrs. Scully, that great, fat, common creature who sold bacon in a shop in Galway, is thinking of him for her daughter. Of course, if you like to see Violet becoming Marchioness right under your nose, you can do so. But what do you want me to do? exclaimed the coronet dazzled girl. Nearly to think no more of Captain Hibbert, but I didn't tell you. He was very impertinent to me when I last saw him. He said he would flirt with you as long as you would flirt with him and that he didn't see why you shouldn't amuse yourself. That's what I want to warn you against, losing your chance of being a Marchioness to help an idle young officer to wile away his time. If I were you, I would tell him when I next saw him that he must not think about it anymore. You can put it all down to me. Say that I would never hear of it. Say that you couldn't think of disobeying me, but that you hope you will always remain friends. You see, that's the advantage of having a mother. Poor Mama has to bear everything. Olive made no direct answer, but she laughed nervously and in a manner that be token descent and having so far won her way, Mrs. Barton determined to conclude, but she could not invite Captain Hibbert to the house. The better plan would be to meet on neutral ground. A luncheon party at Dungary Castle instantly suggested itself and three days after, as they drove through the park, Mrs. Barton exclaimed to Olive for the last time how she should act if she wished to become the Marchioness of Kilkarny. Shake hands with him just as if nothing had happened, but don't enter into conversation and after lunch, I shall arrange that we all go out for a walk on the terrace. You will then pair off with him, Alice. Olive will join you. Something will be sure to occur that will give her an opportunity of saying that he must think no more about her, that I would never consent. Oh, Mama, it is very hard for I can never forget him. Now, my dear girl, for goodness sake, don't work yourself up into a state of mind or we may as well go back to Brookfield. What I tell you to do is right and if you see nobody at the castle that you like better, well, then it will be time enough. I want you to be at least the beauty of one season. This argument again turned the scales. Olive laughed, but her laugh was full of the nervous excitement from which she suffered. I shot no what to say, she exclaimed, tossing her head. So I hope you will help me out of my difficulty, Alice. I wish I could be left out of it altogether, said the girl who was sitting with her back to the horses. It seems to me that I am being put into a very false position. Put into a false position, said Mrs. Barton. I'll hear no more of this. If you won't do as you are told, you had better go back to St. Leonard's. Such wicked jealousy. Oh, mama, said Alice, wounded to the quip. How can you be so unjust? And her eyes filled with tears. For since she had left school, she had experienced only a sense of retreating within herself. But so long as she was allowed to live within herself, she was satisfied. But this refuge was no longer available. She must take part in the scuffle and she couldn't, but wither to go. There seemed to be no escape from the world into which she had been thrust, and for no purpose but to suffer. But the others didn't suffer. Why wasn't she like them? I am sorry, Alice dear, for having spoken so crossly, but I am sorely tired. I really am more to be pitied than blamed. And if you knew all you would, I know be the first to try to help me out of my difficulties instead of striving to increase them. I would do anything to help you, exclaimed Alice, deceived by the accent of sorrow with which Mrs. Barton knew how to invest her words. I am sure you would if you knew how much depends. But dry your eyes, my dear, for goodness sakes, dry them. Here we are at the door. I only want you to be with Olive when she tells Captain Hibber that she cannot. And now, mind Olive, you tell him plainly that he must not consider himself engaged to you. In the ceremonious drawing room, patched with fragments of Indian drapery, Lady Jane and Lady Sarah sat angularly and as far from their guests as possible, for they suspected that their house was being made use of as a battleground by Mrs. Barton and were determined to resent the impertinence as far as lay in their power. But my lord continued to speak of indifferent things with urbanity and courtly gestures and as they descended the staircase, he explained the beauty of his marble statues and his stuffed birds. But Lady Jane, where is Cecilia? I hope she is not unwell. Oh no, Cecilia is quite well, thank you. But she never comes down when there is company. She is so very sensitive. But that reminds me. She told me to tell you that she is dying to see you. You will find her waiting for you in her room when we have finished lunch. Cecilia is not the only person to be thought of, said my lord. I will not allow Alice to hide herself away upstairs for the rest of the afternoon. I hear Alice, you are a great admirer of Tennyson's ideals. I have just received a new edition of his poems with illustrations by Doré, charming artist, full of poetry, fancy, sweetness, imagination. Do you admire Doré, Captain Hibbert? The captain declared that he admired Doré far more than the old masters, a point of taste that my lord ventured to question. And until they rose from table, he spoke of his collection of Arendelle prints with grace and erudition. Then they all went out to walk on the terrace. But as their feet echoed in the silence of the hall, Cecilia, in a voice tremulous with expectancy, was heard speaking. Alice, come upstairs, I am waiting for you. Alice made a movement as if to comply, but stepping under the banisters, Lord Dungery said, Alice cannot come now, she is going out to walk with us, dear, she will see you afterwards. Oh, let me go to her, Alice cried. There will be plenty of time to see her later on, whispered Mrs. Barton. Remember what you promised me. And she pointed to Captain Hibbert, who was standing on the steps of the house, his wide decorative shoulders defined against a piece of gray sky. In despair at her own helplessness, and with a feeling of loathing so strong that it seemed like physical sickness, Alice went forward and entered into conversation with Captain Hibbert. Lord Dungery, Mrs. Barton, and Olive walked together. Lady Jane and Lady Sarah followed at a little distance. In this order, the party proceeded down the avenue as far as the first gate. Then they returned by a sidewalk leading through the laurels and stood in a line facing the wind-worn tennis ground with its black, flowerless beds and bleak vases of alabaster and stone. From time to time, remarks annet, the land league were made, but all knew that a drama, even as important as that of rent, was being enacted. Olive had joined her sister and the girls moved forward on either side of the handsome captain. And as a couple of shepherds directing the movements of their flock, Lord Dungery and Mrs. Barton stood watching. Suddenly, her eyes met Lady Jane's. The glance exchanged was tempered in the hate of years. It was vindictive, cruel, terrible. It shone as menacingly as if the women had drawn daggers from their skirts. And Jane, obeying a sudden impulse, broke away from her sister and called to Captain Hibbert. Fortunately, he did not hear her. And before she could speak again, Lord Dungery said, Jane, now Jane, I beg of you. Mrs. Barton smiled a sweet smile of reply and whispered to herself, do that again, my lady, and you won't have a penny to spend this year. And now, dear, tell me, I want to hear all about it, said Mrs. Barton as the carriage left the steps of Dungery Castle. What did he say? Oh, mama, mama, I am afraid I have broken his heart, replied Olive delorously. It doesn't do a girl any harm even if it does leak out that she jilted a man. It makes the others more eager after her. But tell me, dear, I hope there was no misunderstanding. Did you really tell him that it was no use, that he must think of you no more? Mama, dear, don't make me go over it again. I can't, I can't. Alice heard all I said, she'll tell you. No, no, don't appeal to me, it's no affair of mine, exclaimed the girl more impetuously than she had intended. I am surprised at you, Alice. You shouldn't give way to temper like that. Come, tell me at once what happened. The thin gray, moral eyes of the daughter and the brown, soft, merry eyes of the mother exchanged a long deep gaze of inquiry and then Alice burst into an uncontrollable fit of tears. She trembled from too much grief and could not answer. And when she heard her mother say to Olive, now that the coast is clear, we can go in heart and soul for the Marques. She shuddered inwardly and wished she might stay at home in Galway and be spared the disgrace of the marriage market. End of chapter 14, recording by LaSanne Lavoie. Chapter 15 of Muzzlin, this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by LaSanne Lavoie of Swansea, Illinois. Muzzlin by George Moore, chapter 15. It rained incessantly, sheets of water blown by winds that had traveled the Atlantic, deluged the county. Gray mists trailed mournful and shapeless along the edges of the domain woods over the ridges of the tenants' holdings. Nevermore shall we be driven forth to die in the bogs and ditches, was the cry that rang through the mist and guarded by policemen in their stately houses. The landlords listened, waiting for the sword of a new coercion to fall and release them from their bondage. The meeting of parliament in the spring would bring them this. In the meantime, all who could fled, resolving not to return till the law restored the power that the land leak had so rudely shaken. Some went to England, others to France. Mr. Barton accepted 200 pounds from his wife and proceeded to study gargoyles and pictures in Bruges and, striving to forget the murders and rumors of murders that filled the papers, the girls and their mamas talked of bows, partners and trains in spite of the irritating presence of the land leak agitators who stood on the platforms of the different stations. The train was full of girls. Besides the Bartons, there were the Brennins, Gladys and Zoe. Emily remained at home to look after the place. Three of the Miss Duffy's were coming to the drawing room and four of the honorable Miss Gores. The ghouls and scullies made one party and to avoid Mrs. Barton, the ladies Cullen had pleaded important duties. They were to follow in a day or so. Lord Dungaree's advice to Mrs. Barton was to take a house and he warned her again spending the whole season in an hotel. But apparently without a veil, for when the train stopped, a laughing voice was heard. Milord, vous n'êtes qu'en vilain misentropes. We shall be very comfortable at the shell born. We shall meet all the people in Dublin there and we can have private rooms to give dinner parties. Hearing this, Alice congratulated herself for in an hotel, she would be freer than she would be in a house let for the season. She would hear something and see a little over the horizon of her family in an hotel. She had spent a week in the shell born on her way home from school and remembered the little winter garden on the first landing and the fountain splashing amid ferns and stone frogs. The ladies drawing room she knew was on the right and when she had taken off her hat and jacket, leaving her mother and sister talking of Mrs. Simon and Lord Kilcarnie, she went there hoping to find some of the people whom she had met there before. The usually skirt filled ottoman stood vaguely gaping. The little chair seemed lonely about the hearth rug. Even the sofa where the invalid lady sat was unoccupied and the perforated blinds gave the crowds that passed up and down the street a shadow like appearance. The prospect was not in spiriting but not knowing what else to do. Alice sat down by the fire and felt to thinking who the man might be that sat reading on the other side of the fireplace. He didn't seem as if he knew much about horses and as he read intently she could watch him unobserved. At last their eyes met and when Alice turned away her face she felt that he was looking at her and perhaps getting nervous under his examination she made a movement to stir the fire. Will you allow me? He said rising from his chair. I beg your pardon but if you will allow me I will arrange the fire. Alice let him have the poker and when he had knocked the coal crust and put on some fresh fuel he said, if it weren't for me I don't know what would become of this fire. I believe the old porter goes to sleep and forgets all about it. Now and again he wakes up and makes a deal of fuss with a shovel and a broom. I really can't say we only came up from Galway today. Then you don't know the famous Shellbourne Hotel. All the events of life are accomplished here. People live here and die here and flirt here and I was going to say marry here but hitherto the Shellbourne marriages have resulted in break-offs and we quarrel here. The friends of today are enemies tomorrow and then they sit at different ends of the room. Life in the Shellbourne is a thing in itself and a thing to be studied. Alice laughed again and again she continued her conversation. I really know nothing of the Shellbourne. I was only here once before and then only for a few days last summer when I came home from school. And now you are here for the drawing room. Yes, but how did you guess that? Oh, the natural course of events. A young lady leaves school, she spends four or five months at home and then she is taken to the Lord Lieutenant's drawing room. She liked him none the better for what he had said and began to wonder how she might bring the conversation to a close but when he spoke again, she forgot her intentions and allowed his voice to charm her. I think you told me he said that you came up from Galway today. May I ask you from what side of the county? Another piece of impertinence. Why should he question her? And yet she answered him. We live near Gort. Do you know Gort? Oh yes, I have been traveling for the last two months in Ireland. I spent nearly a fortnight in Galway. Lord Dungary lives near Gort. Do you know him? Very well indeed. He is our nearest neighbor. We see him nearly every day. Do you know him? Yes, a little. I have met him in London. If I had not been so pressed for time, I should have called upon him when I was in Galway. I passed his place going to a land meeting. Oh, you need not be alarmed. I am not a land league organizer or else I should not have thought of calling at Dungary Castle. What a pretty drive it is to Gort. Then do you know a place on the left hand side of the road about a mile and a half from Dungary Castle? You mean Brookfield? Yes, that is our place. Then you are Miss Barton? Yes, I am Miss Barton. Do you know father or mother? No, no, but I have heard the name in Galway. I was spending a few days with one of your neighbors. Oh really? Said Alice, a little embarrassed. For she knew it must have been with the lawlers that he had been staying. At the end of a long silence, she said, I am afraid you have chosen a rather unfortunate time for visiting Ireland. All of these terrible outrages, murders, refusals to pay rent. I wonder you have not been frightened away. As I do not possess a foot of land, I believe I should say not land enough to sod a lark. My claim to collect rent would rest on an even slighter basis than that of the landlords and as with the charming inconsistency of your race, you have taken to killing each other instead of slaughtering the hated Saxon. I really feel safer in Ireland than elsewhere. I suppose, he said, you do a great deal of novel reading in the country? Oh yes, she answered, with almost an accent of voluptuousness in her voice. I spent the winter reading. Because there was no hunting, replied Harding with a smile full of cynical weariness. No, I assure you, no. I do not think I should have gone out hunting even if it hadn't been stopped, said Alice hastily, for it vexed her not a little to see that she was considered incapable of loving a book for its own sake. And what do you read? The tone of indifference with which the question was put was not lost upon Alice, but she was too much interested in the conversation to pay heed to it, she said. I read nearly all Byron, Shelly, Keats, Tennyson and Browning. I think I'd like him better than all the poets. Do you know the scene at St. Praxis? Yes, of course, it is very fine. But I don't know that I ever cared much for Browning. Not only the verse, but the whole mind of the man is uncouth. Yes, uncouth is the word I want. He is the Carlisle of poetry. Have you ever read Carlisle? Oh yes, I have read his French Revolution and his Life of Shiller, but that's all. I only came home from school last summer and at school we never read anything. I couldn't get many new books down in Galway. There were, of course, Dickens, Thackeray, George Elliott in the library, but that was all. I once got a beautiful book from Dungary Castle. I wonder if you have ever read it. It is called Madame Jevesseze. From the descriptions of Rome, it almost seems to me that I have been there. I know the book, but I didn't know a Catholic girl could admire it, and you are Catholic, I presume. I was brought up a Catholic. It is one thing to be brought up a Catholic and another to avoid doubting. There could surely be no harm in doubting. Not the least, but toward which side are you? Have you fallen into the soft feather bed of agnosticism or the thorny ditch of belief? Why do you say the soft feather bed of agnosticism? It must be a relief to be redeemed from belief in hell, and perhaps there is no other redemption. And do you never doubt, she said? No, I can't say I am given much to doubting, nor do I think the subject is any longer worthy of thought. The world's mind, after much anxiety, arrives at a conclusion, and what sages cannot determine in one age, a child is certain about in the next. Thomas Aquinas was harassed with doubts regarding the possibility of old women flying through the air on broomsticks. Nowadays, where a man thus afflicted, he would be surely a fit subject for Hanwell. The world has lived through Christianity as it has through a score of other things. But I am afraid I shock you. No, I don't think you do. Only I never heard anyone speak in that way before. That is all. Here the conversation came to a pause, and soon after the presence of some ladies rendered its revival impossible. Their evening gown suggested the dinner hour and reminded Alice that she had to prepare herself for the meal. All the Galway people, accepting the honorable Mrs. Gore and the Scullies, who had taken houses in town for the season, dined at Tableau d'Orte. The Miss Duffy's were, with the famous birther, the terror of the debutantes. The Brennance and the Goulds sat at the same table. May, thinking of Fred, who had promised to come during the evening, leaned back in her chair, looking unutterably bored. Under a window, Sir Richard and Sir Charles were immersed in wine and discussion. In earnest tones, the latter deprecated the folly of indulging in country love. The former, his hand on the champagne bottle, hiccuped, ma, eh, uh, better come, uh, uh, da, uh, uh,時候, You know my boy, but look, look here. I know such a nice, a glance round to make sure that no lady was within ear shot, and the conversation lapsed into a still more confidential whisper. Mr. Ryan and Mr. Lynch ate their dinner in sullen silence, and at the other end of the long table, Mr. Adair, whom it was now confidently stated Mr. Gladstone could not possibly get on without, talked to Mr. Harding, and when the few dried oranges and tough crepes that constituted dessert had been tasted, the ladies got up and in twos and threes retired to the ladies' city room. They were followed by Lord Dungary, Mr. Adair, and Mr. Harding. The other gentlemen, the baronettes and Ms. Your Ryan and Lynch, preferring smoke and drink to chatter and oblique glances in the direction of ankle-concealing skirts, went up to the billiard room. And the skirts, what an importance they took in the great sitting room, full of easy chairs and Swiss scenery, chalets, lakes, casquets, and chamois painted on the light-colored walls. The big ottoman was swollen with bustled skirts. The little-lows seats around the fire disappeared under skirts. Skirts were tucked away to hide the slivered feet. Skirts were laid out along the sofas to show the elegance of the cut. Then wool work and circulating novels were produced, and the conversation turned on marriage. Bertha, being the only Dublin girl present, all were anxious to hear her speak. After a few introductory remarks, she began, Oh, so you all have come up to the castle and they're going to be presented? Well, you'll find the rooms very grand, and the supper is very good. And if you knew a lot of people, particularly the officers' quarters here, you will find the castle walls very amusing. The best way is to come to town a month before the drawing room and give a ball. And in that way, you get to know all the men. If you haven't done that, I'm afraid you won't get many partners. Even if you do get introduced, they'll only ask you to dance, and you'll never see them again. Dublin is like a racecourse. Men come and speak to you and pass on. It is pleasant enough if you know people. But as for marriages, there aren't any. I assure you I know lots of girls, and very pretty girls too, who have been going out these six or seven seasons and who have not been able to pull it off. And the worst of it is, said a girl, every year we are growing more and more numerous, and the men seem to be getting fewer. Nowadays a man won't look at you unless you have at least two thousand a year. Mrs Barton, who did not wish her daughters to be discouraged from the first, settled her skirts with a movement of disdain. Mrs Gould, pathetically declared, she did not believe love to be dead in the world yet, and maintained her opinion that a nice girl could always marry. But Bertha was not easily silenced, and being perfectly conversant with her subject, she disposed of Dublin's claims as a marriage mart, and she continued to comment on the disappointments of girls until the appearance of Lord Dungary and Mr Harding brought the conversation to a sudden close. And with a charming movement of her skirts, Mrs Barton made room for him to sit beside her. Harding withdrew to the other end of the room to resume his reading, and Alice did not dare to hope that he would lay aside his book and come to talk to her. If he did, her mother would ask her to introduce him to her, and she would have to enter into explanations that he and she had merely exchanged a few words before dinner. She withstood the conversation of the charmed circle as long as she could, and then boldly crossed the room for a newspaper. Harding rose to help her find one, and they talked together till Milord took him away to the billiard room. May, who had been vainly expecting Fred the whole evening, said, Well, Alice, I hope you have had a nice flirtation. And did you notice, May, how she left us to look for a newspaper? Our Alice is fond of reading, but it was not of reading she was thinking this evening. She kept him all to herself at the other end of the room. Mrs. Barton laughed merrily, and Alice began to understand that her mother was approving her flirtation. That is the name that her mother would give her talk with Mr. Harding.