Mr. O'Hara, though with some reluctance, obeyed. He drew his chair as near to the widow's as she would permit him, and pursed his lips into gravity.
"You know my Lord Verney," began the fascinating widow.
"I do," interrupted the irrepressible Irishman, "and a decent quiet lad he is, though, devil take him, he makes so many bones about losing a few guineas at cards that one would think they grew on his skin!"
"Hush," said she. "I can't abide him!"
Mr. O'Hara half started from his armchair.
"Say but the word," said he, "and I'll run him through the ribs as neat as——"
"Oh, be quiet," cried the lady, in much exasperation. "How can you talk like that when all the world knows he is to be my husband!"
"Your husband!" Mr. O'Hara turned an angry crimson to the roots of his crisp red hair. Then he stopped, suffocating.
"But I don't want to marry him, you gaby," cried Mistress Kitty, with a charming smile.
Her lover turned white, and leaned back against the wing of his great chair. The physician had blooded him that morning by way of mending him for his loss of the previous night, and he felt just a little shaky and swimming. Mistress Kitty's eye became ever more kindly as it marked those flattering signs of emotion.