“Dolan?” repeated the old lady, who was a little deaf. “One of the Dolans of Maryland, you say, Pemberton? Dear me! I used to visit Dolan Hall when I was a girl. Such a beautiful old Colonial home! Is it still standing?” she said, turning to Dan.
“I—I don’t know, ma’am,” stammered Dan, who found the gleam of the gold lorgnettes most confusing.
“What does he say?” asked the old lady sharply.
“That he does not know, mother dear!” answered dad.
“He should know,” said the old lady, severely. “The young people are growing up in these careless days without any proper sentiment to the past. A home like Dolan Hall, with its memories and traditions, should be a pride to all of the Dolan blood. The name is really French—D’Olane,—but most unfortunately, as I consider, was anglicized. The family was originally from Touraine, and dates back to the Crusaders, and is most aristocratic.”
“He looks it,” murmured the thin grandmother, fixing her lorgnettes on Dan’s broad shoulders as he moved away to join Tad and Freddy, who were making friends with Polly’s poodle. “I have never seen a boy carry himself better. Blood will tell, as I have always insisted, Stella.”
The lady at her side laughed. She, too, had been regarding Dan with curious interest.
“What does it tell, Aunt Lena?” she asked.
“The lady and the gentleman,” answered Polly’s grandmother.
“Oh, does it?” said the other, softly. “I suppose I am not very wise in such matters, but one of the nicest ladies I ever knew was a little Irish sewing woman who made buttonholes. It was one summer when I went South, more years ago than I care to count; and Winnie—her name was Winnie—came to the house to renovate my riding habit for me.”