“Molly, for shame!” cried what seemed the elder, a damsel of about nineteen, as the younger, holding out her dress with both hands, performed a kind of minuet curtsey to the Viscount, to which he responded with a bow that might have done credit to Versailles.
“Perfectly done—grace and elegance itself. The foot a little—a very little more in advance.”
“Just because you want to look at it,” cried she, laughing. “Molly, Molly!” exclaimed the other, rebukingly. “Let him deny it if he can, Lucy,” retorted she. “But here's papa.”
And as she spoke, a square-built, short, florid man, fanning his bald head with a straw hat, puffed his way forward.
“My Lord, I'm your most obaydient!” said he, with a very unmistakably Irish enunciation. “O'Reilly, I'm delighted to see you. These charming girls of yours have just put me in good humour with the whole creation. What a lovely spot this is; how beautiful!”
Though his Lordship's arm and outstretched hand directed attention to the scenery, his eyes never wandered from the pretty features of the laughing girl beside him.
“It's like Banthry!” said Mr. O'Reilly—“it's the very ditto of Banthry.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed my Lord, still pursuing his scrutiny.