The mysterious stranger made no answer; but lifting her long veil, turned round on the lisping dandy, who staggered back, when the dowager O'Grady appeared before him, drawn up to her full height, and anything but an agreeable expression in her eye. She stalked up towards him, something in the style of a spectre in a romance, which she was not very unlike; and as she advanced, he retreated, until he got the table between him and this most unwelcome apparition.
“I am come,” said the dowager, with an ominous tone of voice.
“Vewy happy of the hono', I am sure, Mistwess O'Gwady,” faltered Furlong.
“The avenger has come.” Furlong opened his eyes. “I have come to wash the stain!” said she, tapping her fingers in a theatrical manner on the table, and, as it happened, she pointed to a large blotch of ink on the table-cover. Furlong opened his eyes wider than ever, and thought this the queerest bit of madness he ever heard of; however, thinking it best to humour her, he answered, “Yes, it was a little awkwa'dness of mine—I upset the inkstand the othe' day.”
“Do you mock me, sir?” said she, with increasing bitterness.
“La, no! Mistwess O'Gwady.”
“I have come, I say, to wash out in your blood the stain you have dared to put on the name of O'Grady.”
Furlong gasped with mingled amazement and fear.
“Tremble, villain!” she said; and she pointed toward him her long attenuated finger with portentous solemnity.