“County Mayo!” cried the bishop.
“Yes,” said his niece, “it is all about County Mayo. Of course it is written very carefully, just as the other story was, and I had a fancy that it might lead some readers to think, ‘Whom the cap fits, let him wear it.’ It has amused me not a little to see how the guilty jump at conclusions. I drew a picture of the French Revolution, and every one cried out that I was writing of ourselves. And now I write of a poor corner in a poor county in Ireland, and your own conscience at once attaches my silly tale to a poor corner in a poor county in England. That amuses me.”
A dull red glowed in the bishop’s angry face. He never had liked this girl, and now he felt that he disliked her intensely. But of course there was no more to be said. An English bishop must not allow himself to be interested in Ireland.
“I am afraid that your youthful spirits will cause you to do what you never can undo,” he said, carefully avoiding her glance of fun as he rose stiffly.
“They have,” said his niece.
“You admit it. Yes, I should imagine so. I”—
Just here Captain Adair was announced.
“Dear uncle,” said Verita, putting her hand into the captain’s while she looked toward the bishop, “we are what Fate wills in our weaving, and I am busy unraveling my skein, that’s all.”
The bishop shook his head in a rather irritated manner and went away. Left alone together, the captain kissed her ladyship and drew her to a seat on the divan.
“My uncle has been expostulating about ‘The Earl’s Own County,’” she said then.