“Do you want to know her?” asked Mrs. Fane.
“Oh, mother, of course not,” said Michael, blushing hotly.
“I dare say they’re very pleasant people,” Mrs. Fane remarked. “I’ll speak to them after lunch, and tell them how anxious you are to make their acquaintance.”
“I say, mother,” Michael protested. “Oh, no, don’t, mother. I really don’t want to know them.”
Mrs. Fane smiled at him, and told him not to be a foolish boy. After lunch, in her own gracious and distinguished manner which Michael always admired, Mrs. Fane spoke to the two sisters and presently beckoned to Michael who crossed the room, feeling rather as if he were going in to bat first for his side.
“I don’t think I know your name,” said Mrs. Fane to the elder sister.
“McDonnell—Norah McDonnell, and this is my sister Kathleen.”
“Scotch?” asked Mrs. Fane vaguely and pleasantly.
“No, Irish,” contradicted the younger sister. “At least by extraction. McDonnell is an Irish name. But we live in Burton-on-Trent. Father and mother are coming down later on.”
She spoke with the jerky speech of the Midlands, and Michael rather wished she did not come from Burton-on-Trent, not on his own account, but because his mother would be able to point out to him how right she had been about their provincialism.