“It’s very intricate,” murmured Christopher; “it sounds as if she ought to have been a parlour-maid.”
“And that’s the only connection I am of the Fitzpatricks,” continued Miss Mullen at lightning speed, oblivious of interruption; “but Francie takes after her mother’s family and her grandmother’s family, and your poor father would tell you if he was able, that the Butlers of Tally Ho were as well known in their time as the Dysarts of Bruff!”
“I’m sure he would,” said Christopher feebly, thinking as he spoke that his conversations with his father had been wont to treat of more stirring and personal topics than the bygone glories of the Butlers.
“Yes, indeed, as good a family as any in the county. People laugh at me, and say I’m mad about family and pedigree; but I declare to goodness, Mr. Dysart, I think the French are right when they say, ‘bong song ne poo mongtir,’ and there’s nothing like good blood after all.”
Charlotte possessed the happy quality of believing in the purity of her own French accent, and she felt a great satisfaction in rounding her peroration with a quotation in that tongue. She had, moreover, worked off some of the irritation which had, from various causes, been seething within her when she met Christopher; and when she resumed her discourse it was in the voice of the orator, who, having ranted out one branch of his subject, enters upon the next with almost awful quietness.
“I don’t know why I should bore you about a purely family matter, Mr. Dysart, but the truth is, it cuts me to the heart when I see your sister—your charming sister—yes, and Miss Hope-Drummond too—not that I’d mention her in the same breath with Miss Dysart—with every advantage that education can give them, and then to think of that poor girl, brought up from hand to mouth, and her little fortune that should have been spent on herself going, as I may say, to fill the stomachs of the Fitzpatricks’ brood!”
Christopher raised himself from the position of leaning against a tree, in which he had listened, not without interest, to the recital of Francie’s wrongs.
“I don’t think you need apologise for Miss Fitzpatrick,” he said, rather more coldly than he had yet spoken. He had ceased to be amused by Miss Mullen; eccentricity was one thing, but vulgar want of reserve was another; he wondered if she discussed her cousin’s affairs thus openly with all her friends.
“It’s very kind of you to say so,” rejoined Miss Mullen eagerly, “but I know very well you’re not blind, any more than I am, and all my affection for the girl can’t make me shut my eyes to what’s unlady-like or bad style, though I know it’s not her fault.”
Christopher looked at his watch surreptitiously.