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"Pretty doesn't express it. She is quite intense; and new style, too, which of course is everything. You will present her next season, I suppose? You must, you know, if only in the cause of friendship, as I wouldn't miss seeing Mrs. Laintrie's and Mrs. Whelon's look of disgust when your wife comes on the scene for worlds!" "Then tell it to me," says Mona. "Oh, no, not now," pleads Violet, hastily. She rises hurriedly from her seat, and lays her disengaged hand on his lips. For once in her life she loses sight of her self-possession, and a blush, warm and rich as carmine, mantles on her cheek..

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She says this steadily, and very proudly, with her head held high, but without looking at him; which permits Geoffrey to gaze at her exhaustively. There is an unconscious meaning in her words, quite clear to him. She is of "the people," he of a class that looks but coldly upon hers. A mighty river, called Caste, rolls between them, dividing him from her. But shall it? Some hazy thought like this floats through his brain. They walk on silently, scarcely exchanging a syllable one with the other, until they come within sight of a small thatched house built at the side of the road. It has a manure-heap just in front of it, and a filthy pool to its left, in which an ancient sow is wallowing, whilst grunting harmoniously. The breeze is so light that hardly a trembling of the leafless branches breaks the deadly silence that reigns all round: "Oh, yes, no doubt I am in the wrong, because I cannot bring myself to adore a vulgar girl who all day long shocks me with her Irishisms," goes on Lady Rodney, almost in tears, born of vexation. "A girl who says, 'Sure you know I didn't' or 'Ah, did ye, now,' or 'Indeed I won't, then!' every other minute. It is too much. What you all see in her I can't imagine. And you too, Violet, you condemn me, I can see." "The question was strictly in bad taste," says Lady Rodney again. "No well-bred man would ask it. I can hardly believe I know him. He must have been some impossible person.".