Brennans or the Duffys to stay with them, but they would be in the way, and occupy the Marquis’s time, and go tell-taling all over the country; no, that wouldn’t do either.  Alice’s playing was wretched.  It was a wonderful thing that a girl like her would not make some effort to amuse men—­would not do something.  Once Olive was married, she (Mrs. Barton) would try to patch up something for this gawk of a girl—­marry her to Sir Charles; excellent match it would be, too—­get all the children emigrated first:  and if he would not have her, there was Sir Richard.  It was said that he was quite reformed—­had given up drink.  But there was no use thinking of that:  for the present she would have to put up with the girl’s music, which was wretched.

Olive fell in with her mother’s plans, and she angled industriously for Lord Kilcarney.  She did not fail to say in or out of season, ’Il n’y a personne comme notre cher Marquis,’ and as the turbot and fruit, that had arrived by the afternoon train from Dublin, were discussed, Milord did not cease to make the most appropriate remarks.  Referring to the bouquet that she had pinned into the Marquis’s buttonhole, he said: 

‘Il y a des amants partout ou il y a des oiseaux et des roses.’  And again:  ’Les regardes des amoureux sont la lumiere comme le baiser est la vie du monde.’

After dinner no time was lost, although the Marquis pleaded fatigue, in settling Alice at the piano, and dancing began in sober earnest.  After each waltz Olive conducted him to the dining-room; she helped him liberally to wine, and when she held a match to his cigarette their fingers touched.  But to find occupation for the long morning hours of her young couple was a grave trouble to Mrs. Barton.  She was determined to make every moment of the little Marquis’s stay in Galway moments of sunshine; but mental no more than atmospheric sunshine is to be had by the willing, and the poor little fellow seemed to pine in his Galway cage like a moulting canary.  He submitted to all the efforts made in his behalf, but his submission was that of a victim.  After breakfast he always attempted to escape, and if he succeeded in eluding Mrs. Barton, he would remain for hours hidden in the laurels, enwrapped in summer meditations, the nature of which it was impossible even to conjecture.  In the afternoon he spoke of the burden of his correspondence, and when the inevitable dancing was spoken of, he often excused himself on the ground of having a long letter to finish.  If it were impossible for her to learn the contents of these letters, Mrs. Barton ardently desired to know to whom they were addressed.  Daily she volunteered to send special messengers to the post on his account; the footman, the coachman, and pony-chaise, were in turn rejected by him.

’Thank you, Mrs. Barton, thank you, but I should like to avail myself of the chance of a constitutional.’

‘La sante de notre petit Marquis avant tout,’ she would exclaim, with much silvery laughter and all the habitual movements of the white hands.  ’But what do you say:  I am sure the young ladies would like a walk, too?’