"By the by," says old Mr. Desmond, looking at his nephew across the remains of the dessert, "You've been a good deal at Aghyohillbeg of late: why?"
It is next evening, and, Monica being at Moyne and inaccessible, Brian is at Coole. Mr. Kelly is walking up and down on the gravelled walk outside, smoking a cigar.
"Because Miss Beresford was there," says Brian, breaking a grape languidly from the bunch he holds in his hand.
"What!" says Mr. Desmond, facing him.
"Because Miss Beresford was there."
"What am I to understand by that?"
"That she was there, I suppose," says Brian, laughing, "and that I am head over ears in love with her."
"How dare you say such a thing as that to me?" says the squire, pushing back his chair and growing a lively purple. "Are you going to tell me next you mean to marry her?"
"I certainly do," says Brian; "and," with a glance of good-humored defiance at the squire, "I'm the happiest man in the world to-day because she last night told me she'd have me."
"You shan't do it!" says the squire, now almost apoplectic. "You shan't do it!—do you hear? I'm standing in your poor father's place, sir, and I forbid you to marry one of that blood. What! marry the daughter—of—of—" something in his throat masters him here,—"the niece of Priscilla Blake, a woman with a tongue! Never!"