“But we haven’t yet heard the harper,” cried Lady Innisfail.
“And the native bards,” said Miss Stafford. “I should so much like to hear a bard. I might even recite a native poem under his tuition.”
Miss Stafford saw a great future for native Irish poetry in English drawing-rooms. It might be the success of a season.
“The entertainment’s over,” said the priest.
“It’s that romancer Brian, that’s done it all,” cried Phineas O’Flaherty.
“Mr. O’Flaherty, if it’s not the truth may I—oh, didn’t I hear her voice, like the wail of a girl in distress?” cried Brian.
“Like what?” said Mr. Airey.
“Oh, you don’t believe anything—we all know that, sir,” said Brian.
“A girl in distress—I believe in that, at any rate,” said Edmund.
“Now!” said Miss Stafford, “don’t you think that I might recite something to these poor people?” She turned to Lady Innisfail. “Poor people! They may never have heard a real recitation—‘The Dove Cote,’ ‘Peter’s Blue Bell’—something simple.”