"Your work is very, very beautiful," said he, after a considerable pause, and laying down the canvas, upon whose unfinished worsted task he had been for some time gazing.
"That is my cousin's work," said Emily, not sorry to turn the conversation to a subject upon which, for many reasons, she wished to dwell; "she used to work a great deal with me before she grew romantic—before she fell in love."
"In love!—with whom?" inquired Lord Aspenly, with remarkable quickness.
"Don't you know, my lord?" inquired Emily Copland, in simple wonder. "May be I ought not to have told you—I am sure I ought not. Do not ask me any more. I am the giddiest girl—the most thoughtless!"
"Nay, nay," said Lord Aspenly, "you need not be afraid to trust me—I never tell tales; and now that I know the fact that she is in love, there can be no harm in telling me the less important particulars. On my honour," continued his lordship, with real earnestness, and affected playfulness—"upon my sacred honour! I shall not breathe one syllable of it to mortal—I shall be as secret as the tomb. Who is the happy person in question?"
"Well, my lord, you'll promise not to betray me," replied she. "I know very well I ought not to have said a word about it; but as I have made the blunder, I see no harm in telling you all I know; but you will be secret?"
"On my honour—on my life and soul, I swear!" exclaimed his lordship, with unaffected eagerness.
"Well, then, the happy man is a Mr. Edmond O'Connor," replied she.
"O'Connor—O'Connor—I never saw nor heard of the man before," rejoined the earl, reflectively. "Is he wealthy?"
"Oh! no; a mere beggarman," replied Emily, "and a Papist to boot!"