If May Gould, who stood at the back, her hand leaning affectionately on Alice’s shoulder, had been three inches taller, she would have been classed a fine figure, but her features were too massive for her height.  Her hair was not of an inherited red.  It was the shade of red that is only seen in the children of dark-haired parents.  In great coils it rolled over the dimpled cream of her neck, and with the exception of Alice, May was the cleverest girl in the school.  For public inspection she made large water-coloured drawings of Swiss scenery; for private view, pen-and-ink sketches of officers sitting in conservatories with young ladies.  The former were admired by the nuns, the latter occasioned some discussion among a select few.

Violet Scully and May Gould would appeal to different imaginations.

Olive, Alice’s sister, was more beautiful than either, but there was danger that her corn-coloured hair, wound round a small shapely head, might fail to excite more than polite admiration.  Her nose was finely chiselled, but it was high and aquiline, and though her eyes were well drawn and coloured, they lacked personal passion and conviction; but no flower could show more delicate tints than her face—­rose tints fading into cream, cream rising into rose.  Her ear was curved like a shell, her mouth was faint and weak as a rose, and her moods alternated between sudden discontent and sudden gaiety.

’I don’t see, Alice, why you couldn’t have made King Cophetua marry the Princess.  Whoever heard of a King marrying a beggar-maid?  Besides, I hear that lots of people are going to be present, and to be jilted before them all isn’t very nice.  I am sure mamma wouldn’t like it.’

’But you are not jilted, my dear Olive.  You don’t like the King, and you show your nobleness of mind by refusing him.’

‘I don’t see that.  Whoever refused a King?’

‘Well, what do you want?’ exclaimed May.  ’I never saw anyone so selfish in all my life; you wouldn’t be satisfied unless you played the whole piece by yourself.’

Olive would probably have made a petulant and passionate reply, but at that moment visitors were coming up the drive.

‘It’s papa,’ cried Olive.

‘And he is with mamma,’ said Violet; and she tripped after Olive.

Mr. Barton, a tall, handsome man, seemed possessed of all the beauty of a cameo, and Olive had inherited his high aquiline nose and the moulding of his romantic forehead; and his colour, too.  He wore a flowing beard, and his hair and beard were the colour of pale cafe-au-lait.  Giving a hand to each daughter, he said: 

’Here is learning and here is beauty.  Could a father desire more?  And you, Violet, and you, May, are about to break into womanhood.  I used to kiss you in old times, but I suppose you are too big now.  How strange—­how strange!  There you are, a row of brunettes and blondes, who before many days are over will be charming the hearts of all the young men in Galway.  I suppose it was in talking of such things that you spent the morning?’