Miss O’Conor owned that she was fond of hunting—just a little; only papa would not allow it. When the hounds met anywhere within reach of Castle Conor, she and Kate would ride out to look at them; and if papa was not there that day,—an omission of rare occurrence,—they would ride a few fields with the hounds.
“But he lets Tizzy keep with them the whole day,” said she, whispering.
“And has Tizzy a pony of her own?”
“Oh yes, Tizzy has everything. She’s papa’s pet, you know.”
“And whose pet are you?” I asked.
“Oh—I am nobody’s pet, unless sometimes Jack makes a pet of me when he’s in a good humour. Do you make pets of your sisters, Mr. Green?”
“I have none. But if I had I should not make pets of them.”
“Not of your own sisters?”
“No. As for myself, I’d sooner make a pet of my friend’s sister; a great deal.”
“How very unnatural,” said Miss O’Conor, with the prettiest look of surprise imaginable.