“Is not Miss Nugent very much admired, ma’am, in London?”
“Of course—in the company she is in, you know, she has every advantage. And she has a natural family air of fashion—Not but what she would have got on much better, if, when she first appeared in Lon’on, she had taken my advice, and wrote herself on her cards Miss de Nogent, which would have taken off the prejudice against the Iricism of Nugent, you know; and there is a Count de Nogent.”
“I did not know there was any such prejudice, ma’am. There may be among a certain set; but, I should think, not among well-informed, well-bred people.”
“I big your pawdon, Colambre; surely I, that was born in England, an Henglishwoman bawn, must be well infawmed on this pint, any way.”
Lord Colambre was respectfully silent.
“Mother,” resumed he, “I wonder that Miss Nugent is not married.”
“That is her own fau’t entirely; she has refused very good offers—establishments that I own I think, as Lady Langdale says, I was to blame to allow her to let pass: but young ledies, till they are twenty, always think they can do better. Mr. Martingale, of Martingale, proposed for her, but she objected to him on account of he’es being on the turf; and Mr. St. Albans’ 7000l. a-year, because—I reelly forget what—I believe only because she did not like him—and something about principles. Now there is Colonel Heathcock, one of the most fashionable young men you see, always with the Duchess of Torcaster and that set—Heathcock takes a vast deal of notice of her, for him; and yet, I’m persuaded, she would not have him to-morrow if he came to the pint, and for no reason, reelly now, that she can give me, but because she says he’s a coxcomb. Grace has a tincture of Irish pride. But, for my part, I rejoice that she is so difficult; for I don’t know what I should do without her.”
“Miss Nugent is indeed—very much attached to you, mother, I am convinced,” said Lord Colambre, beginning his sentence with great enthusiasm, and ending it with great sobriety.
“Indeed, then, she’s a sweet girl, and I am very partial to her, there’s the truth,” cried Lady Clonbrony, in an undisguised Irish accent, and with her natural warm manner. But, a moment afterwards, her features and whole form resumed their constrained stillness and stiffness, and in her English accent she continued, “Before you put my idears out of my head, Colambre, I had something to say to you—Oh! I know what it was—we were talking of embarrassments—and I wish to do your father the justice to mention to you, that he has been uncommon liberal to me about this gala, and has reelly given me carte blanche; and I’ve a notion—indeed I know,—that it is you, Colambre, I am to thank for this.”
“Me, ma’am!”