“But Mr. Drake is not Irish, Frank?”
“Not the least in the world. A particularly practical, long-headed, sensible Englishman. His Celtic blood all comes from his mother. She is as Irish in her way as he is in his, and so is his sister.”
“Is Miss Drake pretty, Frank?”
“Yes,” Frank said, “very pretty; an awfully jolly girl, Prescott, not the least bit of nonsense about her—downright and straightforward, you know.”
Prescott glanced up. But he saw that Frank was too outspoken in his praise to be the least in love.
“Tall or short, Frank?”
“Tall,” Frank said; “a good deal like Teddy; fancy Teddy a pretty girl, and you've got Sarah.”
“And there was a cousin with an Irish name, Frank, wasn't there? You mentioned her in your first letter, but you did not allude to her afterwards. What was she like?”
Frank was longer in giving his answer this time.
“Well,” he said, slowly, “Miss O'Byrne would hardly be considered very pretty, at least I don't think most people would call her so. No, I should say not. She was rather short; and, yes, I should say, and plump.”