“You see, you must approach your daughter through the Mary Foley side of her character—touch her sensibilities as the peasant girl. There is one thing for which you have to be devoutly thankful.”
“Yes, and what is that?” he asked gravely.
“She has no lover.”
“Good heavens!”—and he grew suddenly white. “What an awful idea!”
“But surely a very commonplace idea. She is the beauty, or, at any rate, the boast of the county. She is twenty-one; she might have been married. Think of that!”
“Oh, I could not entertain such a horrible notion. Yes, I own I have much to be thankful for.”
“Her inherited disposition, the race in her veins, has undoubtedly been her safeguard. She, as old Mike declared, was always for ‘picking and choosing like a born lady.’ Her suitors were beneath her standard; she is too fastidious.”
“Thank God for that!” he exclaimed, with pious emphasis.
The following afternoon, the funeral of Katty Foley took place. It was an immense affair, for not only was the whole neighbourhood represented, but cars, asses’ cars, and even turf cars, came laden for miles and miles—not so much to see the last of Katty Foley as the first of Lady Joseline! And Lady Joseline was present—accompanied by her father. Here she would have her own way, being dressed, or rather draped, in black—yes, and in the crêpe so dear to the heart of the Irish lower classes. Her gown was of heavy material that broiling August afternoon; but then, she had not been obliged to walk; she came in a carriage, it was noted, like the real lady she was—now. All eyes were concentrated on the girl as she stepped out and followed her father into the wild, overgrown graveyard which surrounded an old ruined church. She wore a hat, and a long crêpe veil with a deep border, and a pair of loose black kid gloves. Yes, they were proud of her! She looked a lady, every inch. She was crying too, as any one could see, and not a bit uplifted, for all the neighbours could hear her sobbing and sniffing behind the crêpe fall. His lordship was a fine-looking, upstanding man, grave and erect, as became a lord. It was a terrible pity he wasn’t Irish; but anyhow, his daughter was Irish born, and a credit to him, and the country.