"She is one of the most beautiful Irish girls I've ever seen," cried Stanley. "In repose her face is spirituelle. She is a cousin of Lord Westmoorland."
"Fourteenth cousin—twice removed."
"I don't know her degree of relationship."
"I do."
"She's splendid vitality and courage," said the Secretary, desirous of turning the conversation, which threatened to drift into dangerous channels. "She's dashing, thoroughly dashing."
"Gad, I'm with you there! I've seldom seen a better horse-woman. I've watched her more than once in the hunting field put her gee at hedges and ditches that many a Master of Hounds would have fought shy of,—and clear 'em, too."
Stanley smiled, delighted to hear a word of commendation from a quarter where he least expected it, but Kent-Lauriston's next remark was less gratifying.
"Little rapid, isn't she? Trifle fond of fizz-water and cigarettes?"
"She's the spirits of youth," said the Secretary, a trifle coldly.
"Let me see," mused his adviser. "How about that Hunt Ball at Leamington?"