CHAPTER 3



The particular sheet ended at this point. Mrs Gildea laid it down upon
the earlier ones and took another from the little pile which she had
spread in sequence for perusal. She smiled to herself in mournful
amusement. For she scarcely questioned the probability that her friend
would in due course become disillusioned of a very ordinary
individual--he certainly sounded a little like an adventurer--who for
some occult reason had been idealised by this great-souled, wayward and
utterly foolish creature. How many shattered idols had not Lady Bridget
picked up from beneath their over-turned pedestals and consigned to
Memory's dust-bin! On how many pyres had not that oft-widowed soul
committed suttee to be resurrected at the next freak of Destiny! And
yet with it all, there was something strangely elusive, curiously
virginal about Lady Bridget.

She had been in love so often: nevertheless, she had never loved. Joan
Gildea perfectly realised the distinction. Biddy had been as much, and
more in love with ideas as with persons. Art, Literature, Higher
Thought, Nature, Philanthrophy, Mysticism--she spelled everything with
a capital letter--Platonic Passion--the last most dangerous and most
recurrent. As soon as one Emotional Interest burned out another rose
from the ashes. And, while they lasted, she never counted the cost of
these emotional interests.

But then she was an O'Hara: and all the O'Haras that had been were