"If you say that, Mr. Barnard," she said, "I shall accuse you of being a fellow-countryman. I am Irish, you know." She turned and looked up at Deerehurst.
The old peer again bent forward interestedly.
"Indeed!" he exclaimed. "Then we have a bond of sympathy. Some of my best friends come from Ireland."
His voice was high and possessed no fulness, but he had the same courteously ingratiating manner that belonged to his nephew; while a larger acquaintance with the world had taught him an adaptability to circumstances—and persons—that Serracauld had not troubled to acquire. As he spoke now, he brought a tone of deference and friendliness into his words that touched Clodagh to a feeling of companionship.
"Then you know Ireland?" she said quickly.
"Very well indeed."
Her expression softened.
"When were you there last?" she asked in a low voice.
"Last autumn. I was staying at Arranmore with——"
"—With Lord Muskeere. I know—I know. Why, you were in our county. My father often and often stayed at Arranmore before——" She checked herself hastily. "Oh, long ago, before—before I was born," she added a little awkwardly. "It was from a stream that runs near there that he took my name—Clodagh."