“Well, Bence!” said Miss Usher, as she came up with her brother, “tell me frankly what you think of that girl? Is she not beautiful, and has she not an extraordinary air of refinement and distinction?”
“Oh, yes, she’s uncommon-looking,” he muttered, in a peevish tone.
“Did you notice her slow smile? A family smile, I should imagine; and yet, of course, I am talking the most arrant nonsense! Can you believe that her grandmother was some old Kerry woman, who dug potatoes and smoked a pipe! Now, can you?” she repeated impressively.
“No, I cannot,” he answered doggedly. All the time he was mentally making a draft of a letter.
“And yet there is her aunt, a common, ignorant person, as you see. I rather wanted to give her half a crown as a return for the tea; but Irish hospitality is a thing by itself. As for Mary, the day I lost my way I offered her a shilling, and you should have seen how she coloured up and refused it. I almost felt as if I had offered it to an equal. Really, one would take her for a lady if she were dressed up—a somebody, in fact!”
“In fact, Lady Joseline Dene,” her listener mentally added, as they walked on for some time in silence. The Mulgraves were a notoriously proud family; ancient, exclusive, wealthy, now dwindled down to one last branch. What would Owen, Earl of Mulgrave, say to this Irish heiress who fed pigs, washed and cooked (very badly), and had adopted the religion, language, prejudices, and accomplishments of a Kerry peasant? Could she ever be educated, transformed, and fitted for her high degree?
“Come, come, Bence, you have not opened your lips for half a mile,” remonstrated his sister. “A penny for your thoughts. What are you thinking about?”
“That I hope we may have cranberry tart for dinner,” was the mendacious reply.
“Oh, you greedy person. I fancied you might be puzzling out the enigma of that red-haired girl. I must confess that she baffles me. She’s a physiological freak; she’s a white crow. What business has she to feed pigs with those little taper hands? Tell me that?”