“That weary borough,” said she, sighing; “and are we about to have another election?”
“That 's it, Miss Mary; and Lord Kilmorris writes me to say that he 'll be over next week, and hopes he 'll find all his friends here as well disposed towards him as ever.”
“Has he written to my uncle?” asked Mary, hastily.
“No; and that's exactly what I came about. There was a kind of coldness,—more my Lady's, I think, than on Mr. Martin's part,—and Lord Kilmorris feels a kind of delicacy; in fact, he doesn't rightly know how he stands at Cro' Martin.” Here he paused, in hopes that she would help him by even a word; but she was perfectly silent and attentive, and he went on. “So that, feeling himself embarrassed, and at the same time knowing how much he owes to the Martin interest—”
“Well, go on,” said she, calmly, as he came a second time to a dead stop.
“It isn't so easy, then, Miss Mary,” said he, with a long sigh, “for there are so many things enter into it,—so much of politics and party and what not,—that I quite despair of making myself intelligible, though, perhaps, if I was to see your uncle, he 'd make out my meaning.”
“Shall I try and induce him to receive you, then?” said she, quietly.
“Well, then, I don't like asking it,” said he, doubtfully; “for, after all, there's nobody can break it to him as well as yourself.”
“Break it to him, Mr. Scanlan?” said she, in astonishment.
“Faith, it 's the very word, then,” said he; “for do what one will, say what they may, it will be sure to surprise him, if it does no worse.”