“Why don’t you write to them, dear?” asked Miss Campbell.
“I—I’m waiting,” she hesitated.
“I know,” broke in Nancy. “You want to see them first and look them over.”
“I do not,” ejaculated Elinor indignantly and trying not to feel teased.
“You do. You’re afraid they won’t be princes of the blood royal, and you just won’t claim them if they are not.”
It was impossible to keep from laughing at this assertion, and Elinor was thankful for the diversion of a shower. Like the Irish temperament, the Irish climate is a trifle uncertain, and clouds and sunshine follow in quick succession. But it was only a passing rain cloud, and presently the sun was out again shining on the wet leaves of the beech and elm trees and the drooping larches.
Having feasted their eyes on the beauty of the scenery and visited by boat the little island of Innisfallen, probably the most perfect spot in all the British Isles, our motorists now descended on Muckross Abbey, among the ancient ruins of which they proposed to eat their lunch.
“Do you think it would be disrespectful to eat in a cemetery where the graves are centuries old?” asked Billie.
“If the dead could rise up, I am sure they would be greatly entertained,” answered Maria. “Think how diverting it would be, after lying in the ground some hundreds of years, to have a beautiful young lady sit on your chest and eat sandwiches.”
Maria, as guest of honor, was not permitted to help, and Miss Campbell never even offered her services. She never did.