Cats slunk through the area railings; policemen moved from their hiding corners; a lover passed on with his dreams.

XXI

Mrs. Barton rarely took anyone into her confidence, and her plan for the capture of the Marquis was locked within her breast.  Not to her husband, nor yet to Milord, did she think of going for advice.  Her special experience of life had taught her to trust none, to be self-reliant, and never to give up hope.  For as she often said, it is the last effort that wins the battle.  Mrs. Barton’s knowledge of the world, when it came to be analyzed, was only that of the courtesan—­skin deep.

Two days after she received a note from the Marquis, saying he would be glad to spend a week with them at Brookfield.  She read it quietly, slipped it into the pocket of the black silk that covered the unseen feet, and glided out of the room.  Every detail was clear to her.  They must leave Dublin to-morrow morning; they need not trouble about calling on a pack of women, but they would have all their men friends to dinner.

Mr. Barton, when he was informed of these sudden determinations, was in the act of rehearsing a song he was to sing the following day at a concert.

‘But, my dear,’ he said, tightening one of the strings; ’the public will be awfully disappointed.’

’Yes, my dear, yes; I am very sorry, but I have my reasons—­serious reasons; and in this world we must only do what’s right.’

‘Then in the next world we shall be able to do everything that’s wrong,’ said Mr. Barton; and he threw back his blond locks with troubadour-like waves of his lymphatic hand.  ’I shall like the next world better than this,’ he added, and his wife and daughter laughed; for papa was supposed to be very naughty.

‘Olive, dear—­’

’Oh, mamma, I wish you wouldn’t call me Olive.  I shall change my name.  Captain Talbot was chaffing me about it yesterday.  Everybody chaffs me about it.’

’Never mind, my dear; it makes a subject of conversation.  But I was going to tell you that we shall have to start for Brookfield to-morrow.’

’Go to Brookfield!  I couldn’t possibly leave Dublin yet a while; what would all my young men do—­they’d die of broken hearts!’

’It won’t matter much if they do; there aren’t a dozen worth two thousand a year each.’

‘No?  You are joking, mamma.  And the Marquis?’

‘That’s a secret, dear.’

’Then you don’t think he’ll propose to me after all; and I gave up Edward—­Captain Hibbert.’

’I thought you had forgotten that horrid man’s name.  I didn’t say, dear, that the Marquis wouldn’t propose to you—­of course he will.  But we must leave Dublin to-morrow—­I have serious reasons.’

’Oh, mamma, I didn’t think you were so cruel, to go back to that hateful place, where everybody talks of rents, and that odious Land League.’