"She came from—er—Galway," he says now; "good old family too—but—out at elbows and—and—that."
"Yes?" Molly says, interested. "And her name?"
"Blake," replies he, unblushingly, knowing there never was a Blake that did not come out of Galway.
"I feel quite as though I had known you forever," says Molly, much pleased. "You know my principal crime is my Hibernian extraction, which perhaps makes me cling to the fact more and more. Mr. Amherst cannot forgive me—my father."
"Yet he was of good family, I believe, and all that?" questioningly.
"Beyond all doubt. What a question for you to ask! Did you ever hear of an Irishman who wasn't of good family? My father"—with a mischievous smile—"was a direct descendant of King O'Toole or Brian Boru,—I don't know which; and if the king had only got his own, my dear brother would at this moment be dispensing hospitality in a palace."
"You terrify me," said Mr. Potts, profoundly serious. "Why, the blood of all the Howards would be weak as water next to yours. Not that there is anything to be surprised at; for if over there was any one in the world who ought to be a princess it is——"
"Molly, will you sing us something?" Lady Stafford breaks in, impatiently, at this juncture, putting a stop to Mr. Potts's half-finished compliment.
"Molly, I want to speak to you for a moment," Luttrell says next day, coming upon her suddenly in the garden.