“I should like to bear what you 'd say of the O'Shea.”
“Oh, Mr. O'Shea is an Irishman, and their ways bear the same relation to general good breeding that rope-dancing does to waltzing.”
“I 'll take good care not to ask you for any description of myself,” said he, laughingly.
“You are very wrong then, for you should have heard something excessively flattering,” was her reply. “Shall I tell you who your new protector is to be?” cried she, after a moment's pause; “I have just guessed it: the O'Shea himself!”
“O'Shea! impossible; how could you imagine such a thing?”
“I'm certain I'm right. He is always talking of his friend Sir George Rivers—he calls him Rivers,—who is Colonial Secretary, and who is to make him either Bishop of Barbadoes or a Gold Stick at the Gambia; and you 'll see if I 'm not correct, and that the wardship of a young scapegrace lordling is to be the retaining fee of this faithful follower of his party. Of course, there will be no question of tutorship; in fact, it would have such an unpleasant resemblance to the farce and Mr. O'Toole, as to be impossible. You will simply be travelling together. It will be double harness, but only one horse doing the work!”
“I never can make out whether you 're in jest or in earnest,” said he, pettishly.
“I'm always in earnest when I'm jesting; that's the only clue I can give you.”
“But all this time we have been wandering away from the only thing I wanted to think of,—how to part with dear Alfred. You have told me nothing about that.”
“These are things which, as the French say, always do themselves, and, consequently, it is better never to plan or provide for; and, remember, as a maxim, whenever the current is carrying you the way you want to go, put in your oar as little as possible. And as to old associations, they are like old boots: they are very pleasant wear, but they won't last forever. There now, I have given you quite enough matter to think over: and so, good-bye.”