“Not the least in the world. A particularly practical, long-headed, sensible Englishman. His Celtic blood all comes from his mother. She is as Irish in her way as he is in his, and so is his sister.”
“Yes,” Frank said, “very pretty; an awfully jolly girl, Prescott, not the least bit of nonsense about her—downright and straightforward, you know.”
Prescott glanced up. But he saw that Frank was too outspoken in his praise to be the least in love.
“Tall,” Frank said; “a good deal like Teddy; fancy Teddy a pretty girl, and you've got Sarah.”
“And there was a cousin with an Irish name, Frank, wasn't there? You mentioned her in your first letter, but you did not allude to her afterwards. What was she like?”
Frank was longer in giving his answer this time.
“Well,” he said, slowly, “Miss O'Byrne would hardly be considered very pretty, at least I don't think most people would call her so. No, I should say not. She was rather short; and, yes, I should say, and plump.”
Prescott glanced across again at Frank, and a little amused smile came across his face at the cautious way in which he had spoken. But Frank was looking thoughtfully into the fire, and did not notice it.
“There were other young ladies staying in the house you said, Frank. Was there anything special about any of them?”
“No,” Frank said, carelessly; “they were a very jolly lot of girls; I had great fun down there.”
“Lots of dancing, and music, and so on, I suppose, Frank?”
“Katie sang splendidly; one of the finest voices I ever heard in my life,” Frank said, enthusiastically.
“Katie?” Prescott repeated questioningly.
“Ah,” Prescott said, with a smile, “the stout little cousin.”
“Good heavens, Prescott,” Frank said, turning round with great indignation, “what are you talking about?—stout little—by Jove, what put such a ridiculous idea in your head?”
“Why, my dear Frank, you said she was rather short and plump.”
“Pooh, nonsense,” Frank said; “she is rather short, perhaps, but has a charming little figure; just a little plump; but—” and muttering the obnoxious word over to himself, he smoked away in short angry puffs.
Prescott could hardly help laughing aloud at the success which attended his ruse.
“So Miss O'Byrne is not to be talked of lightly, eh, Frank?”