a little distance the poor Scullys stood waiting.  They knew no one, even the Bartons had given them a very cold shoulder.  Mrs. Gould, in an old black velvet dress, wondered why all the nice girls did not get married, and from time to time she plaintively questioned the passers-by if they had seen May.  Violet’s sharp face had grown sharper.  She knew she could do something if she only got a chance.  But would she get a chance?  The Ladies Cullen, their plank-like shoulders bound in grey frise velvet and steel, were talking to her.  Suddenly Lady Sarah bowed to Lord Kilcarney, and the bow said, ‘Come hither!’ Leaving Olive he approached.  A moment after he was introduced to Violet.  Her thin face lit up as if from a light within; a grey cloud dimmed the light of Mrs. Barton’s golden eyes, and when she saw Him in the vestibule helping the Scullys on with their wraps, she shuddered as if struck with a blast of icy wind.

XIX

’DUNGORY CASTLE, GORT,
’Co.  GALWAY.

’MY DEAREST ALICE, ’I was so delighted to hear from you; it was very good of you to write to me.  I was deeply interested in your description of the Dublin festivities, and must try and tell you all the news.

’Everybody here is talking of Olive and Lord Kilcarney.  It is said that he proposed to her at the Drawing-Room.  Is this true?  I hope so, for she seems to have set her heart on the match.  But she is a great deal too nice for him.  They say that when he is in London he does nothing but go about from bar-room to bar-room drinking brandies and sodas.  It is also said that he used to spend much of his time with actresses.  I hope these stories are false, but I cannot help thinking. . . .  Well, we have often talked over these things, and you know what my opinions of men are.  I hope I am not doing wrong in speaking like this; but a piece of news has reached me that forces my thoughts back into the old ways—­ways that I know you have often reproved me for letting my mind wander in.  In a word, darling Alice, I hear that you are very much taken up with a Mr. Harding, a writer, or painter, or something of that sort.  Now, will you promise to write and tell me if this be true?  I would sooner know the worst at once—­hear that you love him madly, passionately, as I believe some women love men.  But you, who are so nice, so good, so beautiful, you could not love a man thus.  I cannot think you could—­I will not think you do.  I have been crying all the morning, crying bitterly; horrible thoughts have forced themselves on my mind.  I have seen (but it was not true though it seemed so clear; visions are not always true) this man kissing you!  Oh!  Alice, let me warn you, let me beg of you to think well before you abandon yourself to a man’s power, to a man’s love.