’He writes a very nice letter indeed.  He says he has a very bad cold, and doesn’t like to show himself at Brookfield with a red nose, but that, unless he dies in the meantime, he will be with us on the twentieth of the month, and will—­if we’ll have him—­stop three weeks with us.’

’I knew the letter was a put-off.  I don’t believe he admires me at all, the little beast; and I know I shall never be a marchioness.  You made me treat poor Edward shamefully, and for no purpose, after all.’

’Now, Olive, you mustn’t speak like that.  Go upstairs and ask Barnes if she has heard anything lately?’

‘Oh, I’m sick of Barnes; what has she heard?’

’She is a great friend of Lady Georgina’s maid, who knows the Burkes intimately, particularly Lady Emily’s maid, and Barnes got a letter from her friend the other day, saying that Lady Emily was delighted at the idea of her brother marrying you, dear, and that he thinks of nobody else, speaks of nobody else.  Run up and speak to her about it.’

As we have seen, Mrs. Barton had drugged Olive’s light brain with visions of victories, with dancing, dresses, admiration; but now, in the tiring void of country days, memories of Edward’s love and devotion were certain to arise.  He made, however, no attempt to renew his courtship.  At Gort, within three miles, he remained silent, immovable as one of the Clare mountains.  Sometimes his brown-gold moustache and square shoulders were caught sight of as he rode rapidly along the roads.  He had once been seen sitting with Mrs. Lawler behind the famous cream-coloured ponies; and to allude to his disgraceful conduct without wounding Olive’s vanity was an art that Mrs. Barton practised daily; and to keep the girl in spirits she induced Sir Charles, who it was reported was about to emigrate his family to the wilds of Maratoga, to come and stay with them.  If a rumour were to reach the Marquis’s ears, it might help to bring him to the point.  In any case Sir Charles’s attentions to Olive would keep her in humour until the great day arrived.

Well convinced that this was her last throw, Mrs. Barton resolved to smear the hook well with the three famous baits she was accustomed to angle with.  They were—­dinners, flattery, and dancing.  Accordingly, an order was given to the Dublin fishmonger to send them fish daily for the next three weeks, and to the pastrycook for a French cook.  The store of flattery kept on the premises being illimitable, she did not trouble about that, but devoted herself to the solution of the problem of how she should obtain a constant and unfailing supply of music.  Once she thought of sending up to Dublin for a professional pianist, but was obliged to abandon the idea on account of the impossibility of devising suitable employment for him during the morning hours.  A tune or two might not come in amiss after lunch, but to have him hanging about the shrubberies all the morning would be intolerable.  She might ask a couple of the