“I hope she looks Irish,” I responded. “I have always tried to live up to my idea of an Irish girl; but though my hair is dark, I haven’t got violet eyes.”
“No, nor any one else either. I never heard of them out of a book,” said Willy, abruptly.
It was almost his first contribution to the conversation; but his father took no more notice of him than if he had not spoken, and went on eating his dinner, taking longer over each mouthful than any one I had ever seen.
“Then, am I not like the Sarsfields?” I asked.
My uncle paused and looked hard at me for a second or two, letting his heavy eyebrows drop over his eyes, with a peculiar change of expression.
“In some ways, perhaps,” he said shortly. Then, turning to Willy, “Nugent O’Neill was here this afternoon to see you about the stopping of some earths. I told him to come over and dine here some day next week. Not”—turning to me—“that he is much of a ladies’ man, but he is a gentlemanlike young fellow enough; very unlike his father,” he added, in a bitter tone.
“Why, is Mr. O’Neill very objectionable?” I said.
I felt an unmistakable kick under the table, and Willy, with an admonitory wink, slurred over my question by saying—
“I can tell you, O’Neill would be pretty mad if he heard you calling him Mr. He’s The O’Neill, and his wife’s Madam O’Neill, and they wouldn’t call the queen their cousin.”
My uncle silently continued his dinner, but I noticed how unpleasant his expression had become since The O’Neill was mentioned.