“How kind of you!”
“And he’ll have still less. Mind you, he’s a great old buck, and expects every girl who goes to Clashmore to make love to him.”
“Oh, Willy!” I cried, in real alarm, “for goodness’ sake don’t let him come near me. I never have anything to say to old men, and yet they invariably want to talk to me.”
“Then, my dear, you’d better look out. The madam will have it in her sleeve for you if he’s too civil; she doesn’t approve of his goings on.”
“Well, one comfort is, I shall probably be in his black books in five minutes, as you say it is one of the seven deadly sins to call him Mister O’Neill. I could no more call him ‘O’Neill’ than I could fly; I should feel as if I were talking to a coachman.”
“Oh, I dare say he’d put up with more than that from you! You’re just his sort. I know he’ll tell every one you are ‘a monstrous fine girl.’ You know, he likes them tall and dark and hand——”
“Do hold your tongue!” I interposed. “You are most offensive.”
“Well, never mind,” said Willy, consolingly. “Maybe he won’t look at you, after all. There’s that big English girl we saw in church with them last Sunday—Watson, I think Nugent said her name was—I dare say he devotes himself to her all the time. Though,” he added, “I don’t see why I shouldn’t go in for her myself”—with a glance at me to see how his shaft had sped.
“Oh, I hope you will!” I said; “it would interest me so much.”
I thought Willy looked a little crestfallen, and he said no more on the subject.