“Have I said anything wrong, papa?” she asked, when Lord Cullamore had ceased to speak.
“Nothing, my love, nothing, but precisely what was natural and right. Dunroe's reply, however, was neither the one nor the other, and he ought to have known it.”
“Well now, Emily,” said her brother, “I don't regret it, inasmuch as it has enabled me to satisfy myself upon a point which I have frequently heard disputed—that is, whether a woman is capable of blushing or not. Now I have seen you blush with my own eyes, Emily; nay, upon my honor, you blush again this moment.”
“Dunroe,” observed his father, “you are teasing your sister; forbear.”
“But don't you see, my lord,” persisted his son, “the absolute necessity for giving her a course of fashionable life, if it were only to remove this constitutional blemish. If it were discovered, she is ruined; to blush being, as your lordship knows, contrary to all the laws and statutes of fashion in that case made and provided.”
“Dunroe,” said his father, “I intend you shall spend part of the summer and all the autumn in Ireland, with us.”
“Oh, yes, John, you must come,” said his sister, clapping her snow-white hands in exultation at the thought. “It will be so delightful.”
“Ireland!” exclaimed Dunroe, with well-feigned surprise; “pray where is that, my lord?”
“Come, come, John,” said his father, smiling; “be serious.”
“Ireland!” he again exclaimed; “oh, by the way, that's an island, I think, in the Pacific—is it not?”