She herself had been launched into Society there, and the flowers at the
ball had cost eighty-seven pounds; but, being reckoned peculiar, she had
made few friends among her own sex. She had attracted many men, for she
was a beauty--_the_ beauty, in fact, of Society, she said.

She spoke utterly without shame or reticence, as a life-prisoner tells
his past to a fellow-prisoner; and Conroy nodded across the smoke-rings.

'Do you remember when you got into the carriage?' she asked. '(Oh, I
wish I had some knitting!) Did you notice aught, lad?'

Conroy thought back. It was ages since. 'Wasn't there some one outside
the door--crying?' he asked.

'He's--he's the little man I was engaged to,' she said. 'But I made him
break it off. I told him 'twas no good. But he won't, yo' see.'

'_That_ fellow? Why, he doesn't come up to your shoulder.'

'That's naught to do with it. I think all the world of him. I'm a
foolish wench'--her speech wandered as she settled herself cosily, one
elbow on the arm-rest. 'We'd been engaged--I couldn't help that--and he
worships the ground I tread on. But it's no use. I'm not responsible,
you see. His two sisters are against it, though I've the money. They're
right, but they think it's the dri-ink,' she drawled. 'They're
Methody--the Skinners. You see, their grandfather that started the
Patton Mills, he died o' the dri-ink.'

'I see,' said Conroy. The grave face before him under the lifted veil
was troubled.