“Is it? And yet, by all accounts, some one sent off a girl there last month who was a real disgrace to her family.”
Barky became crimson as she looked him steadily in the face, and added, “I see you are your mother’s own son!”
“Well, so I have been given to understand.”
“And she has a right to be proud of you!”
“I am glad you think so”; and Mr. Barker Doran turned on his heel and stalked away, carrying with him all the eclat which is supposed to be conferred by the last word.
CHAPTER VI
The conversation between his brother and Mrs. Aron was not overheard by Ulick. As the nervous young mare was cold and impatient, he had hastily mounted, and ridden away through the demesne. After an hour’s exercise he returned home, hurried up to his room, hunted out his money, and, taking what was called “the dairy pony,” galloped off to “The Arms.” He told himself that he could just do it, and be back in time for dinner at eight o’clock, for Mrs. Doran kept fashionable hours. Fashionable hours cost nothing; a chop at six is the same price as a chop two hours later.
When Ulick arrived at “The Arms,” a comfortable family hotel, the resort of tourists in search of fishing and scenery—the fishing a fiction, the scenery a delightful fact—he went to the bar and asked for Mrs. Aron. The landlady replied in person.