'I am very sorry, but it is my name.'
'Is there no title in your family?'
'No,' stoutly answered the quondam Paddy.
'What, then, is the name of your father's estate?'
He thought of the cabin in which he had passed his childhood—the pig, his playmate that had paid its rent—his father, in his long frieze coat, with a hay-band round his hat—and his mother, attired in the fluttering rags which so many of the Irish seem to think impart an airy smartness to their dress; perhaps, too, he thought with regret of the warm hearts that had beat beneath them, so fond, so proud of him; and the 'sunshine' of his own 'breast,' that, in spite of his almost uninterrupted good-fortune, had never bounded so lightly since: but at anyrate he answered with admirably-acted quiet dignity, 'It is, alas! no longer in our family.'
'But,' persisted the lady, 'you were born near some village—in some parish that had a name?'
'The village of Ballybrag was not far from our residence.'
'A la bonne heure—that will do excellently well! Call yourself the Baron de Ballybrag.'
'Call myself?'
'Mais oui, why not? I shall not object to be named De Ballybrag.'