Poor O'Brien, as we all now began to see, had taken the matter
amiss. He had offered to make a bust of Mrs. Talboys, and she had
consented, expressing a wish that it might find a place among those
who had devoted themselves to the enfranchisement of their fellow-
creatures. I really think she had but little of a woman's customary
personal vanity. I know she had an idea that her eye was lighted up
in her warmer moments by some special fire, that sparks of liberty
shone round her brow, and that her bosom heaved with glorious
aspirations; but all these feelings had reference to her inner
genius, not to any outward beauty. But O'Brien misunderstood the
woman, and thought it necessary to gaze into her face, and sigh as
though his heart were breaking. Indeed he declared to a young
friend that Mrs. Talboys was perfect in her style of beauty, and
began the bust with this idea. It was gradually becoming clear to
us all that he would bring himself to grief; but in such a matter
who can caution a man?

Mrs. Mackinnon had contrived to separate them in making the carriage
arrangements on this day, but this only added fuel to the fire which
was now burning within O'Brien's bosom. I believe that he really
did love her, in his easy, eager, susceptible Irish way. That he
would get over the little episode without any serious injury to his
heart no one doubted; but then, what would occur when the
declaration was made? How would Mrs. Talboys bear it?

"She deserves it," said Mrs. Mackinnon.

"And twice as much," my wife added. Why is it that women are so
spiteful to each other?