"
"That may be, dearie," old Bridget said, with the fond, coaxing way of
our people towards us. "That may be. Still, if I was you, Miss Bawn, I
wouldn't think of Captain Anthony, even if he did do you a service. He's
a beautiful gentleman, and many a lady was mad for him, I know well, and
not his fault either; and many a poor girl, too, because he was so
pleasant. And no woman had ever cause to blame him or do anything but
love him. Still, dear, Master Theobald's the husband for you. Isn't he
young and bonny, like yourself? And Captain Cardew has a white head.
He's old by you, Miss Bawn."
I remembered the old, childish days when she had been tenderer to me
than Maureen, and she looked at me so wistfully that I could not be
angry with her. Indeed, I could have almost wept, like the child of long
ago, on her comfortable breast. And I was hardly vexed that she called
Anthony Cardew old. What did it matter, since I loved him, and he would
always, always be the finest gentleman in the world to me?
I kissed her and left her, promising to come again and to bring Miss
Champion with me, and I drove back in the cab to St. Stephen's Green. At
one moment my heart was heavy because Captain Cardew was angry with me;
and at another it was irrationally light, because he loved me and
breathed the same air with me.
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