“I had hoped your niece was making arrangements for our return to Cro' Martin,” said she, querulously, “instead of planning marine excursions. I told her yesterday, or the day before,—I forget which; but who could remember time in such a place?—that I was bored to death here. The observation seems to amuse you, Mr. Martin; but it is a simple fact.”
“And you are bored to death at Cro' Martin, too, if I mistake not?” said he, with a very significant dryness.
“I should think I was, sir; and nothing very astonishing in the confession, besides.”
“And Dublin, madam?”
“Don't speak of it. If one must endure prison discipline, at least let us have a cell to ourselves. Good-morning, Miss Martin. I hope you enjoyed your party on the water?”
This speech was addressed to Mary, who now entered the room dressed in a plain morning costume, and in her quiet, almost demure look resembling in nothing the dripping and dishevelled figure that sprung from the boat.
“Good-morning, aunt,” said she, gayly. “Good-morning, uncle,” kissing, as she spoke, his cheek, and patting him fondly on the shoulder. “I saw you out on the rocks as we were coming in.”
“Pooh, pooh!” said he, in affected indifference. “I knew there was no danger—”
“Yes, but there was, though,” said she, quickly. “If we had n't set all sail on her, she 'd have been pooped to a certainty; and I can tell you I was in a rare fright, too.”
“Oh, indeed; you confess to such an ignoble emotion?” said Lady Dorothea, with a sneer.