"But no fairy princess ever come to Ireland, Mr. Beresford; it's only a 'fine country spoiled,' you know, and 'sunk in semi-barbarism'—not at all the sort of place for a fairy prince to come to."
"I don't know that at all, Honor."
It is the first time he has called her Honor, and she looks up at him half startled as he continues:
"It seems to me the fairy prince might travel farther and fare worse."
"But he might not think so, particularly if he was an English fairy prince," the girl says dryly.
"Why are you so hard on us, Honor? Why are you so hard on me? I should say. For you are sweetness itself to that little curate of Drum, and he's about the poorest specimen of the Cockney I ever met."
"You couldn't expect that any but the 'poorest specimen' would condescend to be a curate at Drum," she returns flippantly.
Taking no heed of her interruption, he goes on:
"You have grudged every kind word, every little attention lavished on me since I've been here. Often and often I've said to myself, 'I will go away and never look upon her face again.' But I have not gone."
"No," the girl says, feeling curiously abashed and contrite under the gaze of those calmly accusing eyes. "I'm sorry if—if I have been rude to you."