“Yesterday afternoon I flattered myself that I had given you such advice as commended itself to you, and yet now you tell me that love is born, not made. The man who believes that is past being advised. It is, I say, the end of wisdom. What has happened since yesterday afternoon?”
“Nothing has happened to shake my confidence in the soundness of your advice,” said Harold, but not until a pause had occurred—a pause of sufficient duration to tell his observant friend that something had happened.
“If nothing has happened—Miss Craven is going to sketch the Round Tower at noon,” said Edmund—the Round Tower was some distance through the romantic Pass of Lamdhu.
“The Round Tower will not suffer; Miss Craven is not one of the landscape libellers,” remarked Harold.
Just then Miss Innisfail hurried up with a face lined with anxiety.
Miss Innisfail was the sort of girl who always, says, “It is I.”
“Oh, Mr. Airey,” she cried, “I have come to entreat of you to do your best to dissuade mamma from her wild notion—the wildest she has ever had. You may have some restraining influence upon her. She is trying to get up an Irish jig in the hall after dinner—she has set her heart on it.”
“I can promise you that if Lady Innisfail asks me to be one of the performers I shall decline,” said Edmund.
“Oh, she has set her heart on bringing native dancers for the purpose,” cried the girl.
“That sounds serious,” said Edmund. “Native dances are usually very terrible visitations. I saw one at Samoa.”