"I decline to shrink," with [unparalleled] bravery. "I prefer to rush upon my fate. Life has no longer any flavor for me until I hear what the old reprobate at Coole has done."
"Well, if you will insist upon the sorry tale, 'tis this. Once there lived a wicked knight, who wooed a maiden fair. But when that her heart was all his own, his love grew cold, and, turning from her, he refused to fulfil his plighted troth and lead her to the hymeneal altar. In fact, he loved and he rode away, leaving her as dismally disconsolate as the original maid forlorn."
"Alas for the golden age of chivalrie!" says Mr. Desmond.
"Alas, indeed! That wicked knight was your uncle; the maid forlorn my mother!"
"You have been giving me a summary of a fairytale, haven't you?" asks he, in an unbelieving tone.
"No, indeed; it is all quite true. From what I have heard, your uncle must have treated my mother very badly. Now, aren't you thoroughly ashamed of yourself and your family?"
"One swallow makes no summer," says Mr. Desmond, hardily. "Because my uncle refused to succor a distressed damosel is no reason why I should so far forget myself. Besides, the whole thing seems incredible. Report says, and," with an expressive glance at her, "I can well believe it, your mother was the most beautiful woman of her time in all the countryside; while my uncle, bless him, is one of the very ugliest men I ever met in my life. He might take a prize in that line. Just fancy the Beast refusing to wed with Beauty!"
"To be ugly, so far as a man is concerned, is nothing," says Monica with a knowledge beyond her years. "Many singularly plain men have been much beloved. Though"—with an unconscious study of her companion's features, who is decidedly well favored—"I confess I should myself prefer a man whose nose was straight, and whose eyes were—had no inclination to look round the corner, I mean."
"A straight nose is to be preferred, of course," says Mr. Desmond, absently stroking his own, which is all that can be desired. "But I never since I was born heard such an extraordinary story as yours. I give you my word,"—earnestly,—"my uncle is just the sort of man who, if any girl, no matter how hideous, were to walk up to him and say, 'I consent to marry you,' ought to be devoutly grateful to her. Why, talking of noses, you should just see his: it's—it's anyhow," with growing excitement. "It's all up hill and down dale. I never before or since saw such a nose; and I'd back his mouth to beat that!"
"He must be a very distinguished-looking person," says Miss Beresford, demurely.