“Who was that young man with a strong Irish accent—who contradicted me so suddenly?” he asked.
“The dark young man?”
“The noisy young man.”
“That was Mist' Pat'ick O'Go'man. He is a Kelt and all that. Spells Pat'ick with eva so many letters. You know. They say he spends ouas and ouas lea'ning E'se. He wo'ies about it. They all t'y to lea'n E'se, and it wo'ies them and makes them hate England moa and moa.”
“He is orthodox. He—is what I call orthodox to the ridiculous extent.”
“'idiculous.”
A deep-toned gong proclaimed breakfast over a square mile or so of territory, and Lady Sunderbund turned about mechanically towards the house. But they continued their discussion.
She started indeed a new topic. “Shall we eva, do 'ou think, have a new 'iligion—t'ua and betta?”
That was a revolutionary idea to him.
He was still fending it off from him when a gap in the shrubs brought them within sight of the house and of Mrs. Garstein Fellows on the portico waving a handkerchief and crying “Break-fast.”