“Very well, Molly. If a stranger should land and ask for his honour or myself, show him in here.”
CHAPTER XLVIII. HOW THE TASK TRIED HER
Kate dressed herself with more than usual care—simply, indeed, but with a degree of attention to becomingness that was truly remarkable. Twice did she alter the arrangement of her hair, and more than once did she try what coloured ribbon would best suit the style she had chosen. A man might have passed without notice the little details by which she heightened the charms that were nature to her, but a woman would quickly have detected small traits of coquetry in the loose falling curls that fell upon her neck, and the open sleeve that displayed her finely-turned arm; nor would the sprig of dark purple heath she wore in her bosom have escaped the critical eye, well knowing how its sombre colouring “brought out” the transparent brilliancy of the fair skin beneath it.
She had but completed her studied but simple toilet, when Molly ushered into the room “The strange man, Miss, that wants to see the master.”
“And that is only to see the mistress, I’m told,” added Mr. O’Rorke, as he seated himself, and laid his hat on the floor beside him. It was then that Kate entered, and as the fellow arose to greet her, his looks of admiring wonder sufficiently told what success had waited on her efforts.
“My uncle is not well enough to see you,” said she, as she sat down, “but he has told me everything that he would say, and I have ventured to assure him that, as you and I are somewhat old friends, we should soon come to an understanding together; the more, as we can have but the same wish in the object before us.”
“May I never! but you’re grown an elegant woman,” cried O’Rorke. “‘Tisn’t out of flattery I say it, but I don’t think there’s your equal in Dublin.”
“I’m very proud of your approval,” said she, with a faint smile, but with the most perfect composure.
“And it’s honest—all honest,” added he. “It isn’t as if you was made up with paint, and false hair, and fine lace, and stiff silk. There you are, as simple as the turnpike man’s daughter, and, by the harp of old Ireland, I’ll back you against any beauty in St. James’s this day.”