Joseline did not wait to be cross-examined, but threw over her shoulder the misleading statement, “The pater is home!”
Lord Mulgrave escorted his daughter to France, and presented her to her mother’s family, who received her with open arms, and were enchanted with l’Irlandaise, their kinswoman. Here the brogue and her occasional solecisms did not matter, since the child had her mother’s face, and her mother’s heart. She spent six months in the valley of the Oise, and returned to Ashstead Park a much improved and polished young woman; for her cousins had found her a ready pupil, and had taught her ease, self-confidence, and fluent French.
* * * * *
Ashstead always looked its best in August. The gardens were perfect, the green sward like rich velvet, the old trees dense, massive, and picturesque, and the surroundings silent and restful. On a certain warm afternoon, the sound of croquet-balls and voices woke the sleepy grounds. A game had just been concluded, and Joseline strolled off towards the shade, followed by her cousin and partner; they had been defeated by one stroke.
“What is the meaning of ‘Bad scran to ye’?” he asked. “I heard you addressing the blue ball in those terms.”
“Oh, it means ‘bother take it!’ and is just one of the old expressions I want to forget. I was so vexed that I lost the game. The words slipped out. I hope Miss Usher did not hear me.”
“What matter if she did? Come and let us find a seat.”
“Tired?” she asked. “Oh, poor cousin Dudley!”