The family at Kilgobbin Castle were seated at tea when Dick Kearney’s telegram arrived. It bore the address, ‘Lord Kilgobbin,’ and ran thus: ‘Walpole wishes to speak with you, and will come down with me on Friday; his stay cannot be beyond one day.—RICHARD KEARNEY.’
‘What can he want with me?’ cried Kearney, as he tossed over the despatch to his daughter. ‘If he wants to talk over the election, I could tell him per post that I think it a folly and an absurdity. Indeed, if he is not coming to propose for either my niece or my daughter, he might spare himself the journey.’
‘Who is to say that such is not his intention, papa?’ said Kate merrily. ‘Old Catty had a dream about a piebald horse and a haystack on fire, and something about a creel of duck eggs, and I trust that every educated person knows what they mean.’
‘I do not,’ cried Nina boldly.
‘Marriage, my dear. One is marriage by special license, with a bishop or a dean to tie the knot; another is a runaway match. I forget what the eggs signify.’
‘An unbroken engagement,’ interposed Donogan gravely, ‘so long as none of them are smashed.’
‘On the whole, then, it is very promising tidings,’ said Kate.
‘It may be easy to be more promising than the election,’ said the old man.
‘I’m not flattered, uncle, to hear that I am easier to win than a seat in Parliament.’
‘That does not imply you are not worth a great deal more,’ said Kearney, with an air of gallantry. ‘I know if I was a young fellow which I’d strive most for. Eh, Mr. Daniel? I see you agree with me.’