"
"Troth," said her father, taking up the argument where she left it, "I
dunno how I'll look the respectable young man in the face afther the way
you insulted him. Why on airth wouldn't you dance wid him?"
"Because, father, I don't like him."
"An' why don't you like him?" asked her mother. "Where is there his
aquil for either face or figure in the parish, or the barony itself?
But I know the cause of it; you could dance with Bryan M'Mahon. But
take this with you--sorra ring ever Bryan M'Mahon will put on you wid
my consent or your father's, while there's any hope of Hycy Burke at any
rate."
Kathleen, during this long harangue, sat smiling and sedate, turning her
beautiful and brilliant eyes sometimes upon one parent, sometimes upon
another, and occasionally glancing with imperturbable sweetness and
good nature at her sister Hanna. At length, on getting an opportunity of
speaking, she replied,--
"Don't ask me, mother, to give anything in the way of encouragement to
Hycy Burke; don't ask me, I entrate you, for God's sake--the thing's
impossible, and I couldn't do it. I have no wish for his father's money,
nor any wish for the poor grandeur that you, mother dear, and my father,
seem to set your heart upon. I don't like Hycy Burke--I could never
like him; and rather than marry him, I declare solemnly to God, I would
prefer going into my grave.
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