“Oh no, she never mislikes any one; and don’t call her her ladyship, for mercy’s sake!”
“No; and I’ll be very thankful to you if you’ll correct me when I’m wrong. Now, tell me, what my father likes?”
“Peace, with a big P, and sport and books and pictures and curios. I am happy to add, he likes me.”
“And your mother?”
“Society, society, and again society—lots of nice boys, and smart married women without their husbands, married men without their wives. She adores bridge and cigarettes, motoring, and pretty clothes; she likes to give the best house-parties, and to feel that she is very popular. By-the-by, I wonder what Dudley will say to you?”
“Dudley? Oh, yes, I remember—father’s cousin. Do you like him?”
“Pretty well: he is decent enough. Mother adores him.”
“Why? Sure she is no relation!”
“No, if he were she might loathe him. She likes him because he is rich, and run after, and good-looking, and the next heir—and so deliciously casual and cool; and because”—here she took the pillow from beneath her head and thumped it vigorously—“she wishes him to marry”—a violent thump—“me!”
“Well, and why not?” inquired Joseline, in her tranquil voice. “I see they do draw down matches over here, with all their laughing at us in Ireland.”