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As Mona gazes at him half fearfully, he raises himself suddenly on his elbow, and says, in a tone far stronger than he has yet used,— Rodney has interviewed the old man, her uncle; has told him of his great and lasting love for this pearl among women; has described in a very few words, and without bombast, his admiration for Mona; and Brian Scully (though with sufficient national pride to suppress all undue delight at the young man's proposal) has given a hearty consent to their union, and is in reality flattered and pleased beyond measure at this match for "his girl." For, no matter how the Irish may rebel against landlordism and aristocracy in general, deep down in their hearts lies rooted an undying fealty to old blood. "I was not determined: you mistake me," exclaims Mona, miserably. "I simply hadn't a headache: I never had one in my life,—and I shouldn't know how to get one!".
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Then Mrs. Geoffrey turns quickly, and runs home at the top of her speed. She is half sad, yet half exultant, being filled to the very heart with the knowledge that life, joy, and emancipation from present evil lie in her pocket. This thought crowns all others. The simple query confounds him more than might a more elaborate one put by a clever worldling. Why indeed? "He may have, and a stocking full of gold, and the roc's egg, or anything else, for aught I know. I never saw it. They tell me there was an iniquitous and most unjust will drawn up some years ago by old Sir George: that is all I know." "I was thinking about this impending lawsuit," he stammers, uneasily. "You know of it, of course? Yet why should I be blamed?".
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