“Why then, you’ve but got to show yourself. You’re not her husband,” added Kilcroney bitterly.
“Not at all!” cried Mr. Stafford, with some energy. “It shall never be said that I have set myself to curry favour with Kitty Kilcroney, more especially since ’tis my own sister-in-law that she’s treating so uncivil. Nay, Kil, I’ll keep out of it. I’m only giving you a bit of advice for your own sake. Get her a ticket. ’Twill save a lot of bother in the end. And I do assure you,” as Denis laughed hollowly, “’Twill have an excellent effect on society generally. There has been far too much fuss about an incident which should have been—ahem!—passed over!”
Lord Kilcroney dropped upon the horsehair sofa, which creaked dismally.
“And pray,” said he, in a tone of sarcasm, “when you had dealings with my Lady yourself—and you had a few, one way and another—did you find her so easy to manage?”
Now Mr. Stafford had somewhere hidden away an old grudge against Lady Kilcroney, who had not only jilted him, but had scored off him notably on more than one occasion. Mr. Stafford was far from approving of Molly, whom, indeed, it may be said, he heartily disliked, but to find a close relative pilloried on your arrival at a fashionable watering-place was a set down to a beau’s pride. He was inclined to champion her. Under his languid airs he was very wroth with my Lady Kilcroney; she was making an indelicate fuss; she had lost her usual tactful grasp of the situation through ridiculous jealousy. After all, as Kilcroney himself represented, there couldn’t have been much harm in a kiss bestowed on the open parade in a high wind; between wrist or cheek like enough there was a confusion by one or other of the parties. But Kilcroney’s next remark made him jump to his feet.
“As for a ticket for the show, me lad, I’m not to have one, either.”
“Kil!”
“My Lord!”
Molly broke into shriller laughter, and beat her palms together.
“And His Royal Highness coming and all!”