‘No, no, tell me none of all these; but tell me, shall I come down in my Suliote jacket of yellow cloth, for I know it becomes me?’
‘And if we women had not courage,’ went on Kate, not heeding the question, ‘what would our men do? Should we see them lead lives of bolder daring than the stoutest wanderer in Africa?’
‘And my jacket and my Theban belt?’
‘Wear them all. Be as beautiful as you like, but don’t be late for dinner.’ And Kate hurried away before the other could speak.
When Miss O’Shea, arrayed in a scarlet poplin and a yellow gauze turban—the month being August—arrived in the drawing-room before dinner, she found no one there—a circumstance that chagrined her so far that she had hurried her toilet and torn one of her gloves in her haste. ‘When they say six for the dinner-hour, they might surely be in the drawing-room by that hour,’ was Miss Betty’s reflection as she turned over some of the magazines and circulating-library books which since Nina’s arrival had found their way to Kilgobbin. The contemptuous manner in which she treated Blackwood and Macmillan, and the indignant dash with which she flung Trollope’s last novel down, showed that she had not been yet corrupted by the light reading of the age. An unopened country newspaper, addressed to the Viscount Kilgobbin, had however absorbed all her attention, and she was more than half disposed to possess herself of the envelope, when Mr. Kearney entered.
His bright blue coat and white waistcoat, a profusion of shirt-frill, and a voluminous cravat proclaimed dinner-dress, and a certain pomposity of manner showed how an unusual costume had imposed on himself, and suggested an important event.
‘I hope I see Miss O’Shea in good health?’ said he, advancing.
‘How are you, Mathew?’ replied she dryly. ‘When I heard that big bell thundering away, I was so afraid to be late that I came down with one bracelet, and I have torn my glove too.’
‘It was only the first bell—the dressing-bell,’ he said.
‘Humph! That’s something new since I was here last,’ said she tartly.