“Mrs Dunham and I try to make this my pupils’ home,” said the doctor, with dignity.
“Yes, I know,” said the lady, smiling a broad, pleasant smile, and showing her fine white teeth; “but sure, doctor, there’s no place like home. It’s very pleasant out yonder with Sir John, but I long for wild old Galway, where I was born. Well, Dominic, and do you know what I’ve come for?”
“You said something about taking care of me, madam,” stammered Nic.
“Ah, and don’t stammer and blush like a great gyurl, and don’t call me madam. I am a very old friend now of your dear mother, and I’ve come to take you back with me over the salt say—I mean sea, doctor, but I always called it say when I was a gyurl. I was in England a great deal after I was married, but the fine old pronunciation clings to me still, and I’m not ashamed.”
“Why should you be, Lady O’Hara?” said the doctor in his most courtly manner, as he rose. “There, you would like to have a quiet chat with Dominic Braydon. I will leave you till lunch is ready.”
“Oh, I don’t know about lunch,” said the lady, hesitating. “Yes, I do. Dominic here will lunch with us, of course?”
“Of course,” said the doctor, smiling; and there was a curious look in his eye as Nic glanced at him sharply.
“Sure, then, I’ll stay,” said the lady. “But wait a minute: I shall be obliged to answer the question when we get back over the say. Did I say say or sea then, Dominic?”
Nic coloured a little.
“Oh, there’s no doubt about it,” cried the lady. “It was say, doctor. Now then, tell me: has he been a good boy?”