“No, ’t is this,” said Kate—“we ‘ll be open with each other, and it’s a grief to me to say it to you, whom I have liked so much, but you ‘re no O’Ma-hony at all.”
The young man with difficulty grasped her meaning.
“Well, if you remember, I never said I knew my father was one of the O’Mahonys, you know. All I said was that he came from somewhere in County Cork. Surely, there was no deceit in that.”
She shook her head.
“No; what ye said was that your name was O’Mahony.”
“Well, so it is. Good heavens! That isn’t disputed, is it?”
“And you said, moreover,” she continued, gravely, “that your father knew our O’Mahony as well almost as he knew himsilf.”
“Oh-h!” exclaimed Bernard, and fell thereupon into confused rumination upon many thoughts which till then had been curiously subordinated in his mind.
“And, now,” Kate went on, with a sigh, “whin I mintion this to The O’Mahony himself, he says he never in his life knew any one of your father’s name. O’Daly was witness to it as well.”
Bernard had his elbows once more on the rail. He pushed his chin hard against his upturned palms and stared at the skyline, thinking as he had never been forced to think before.