"Will he?" said Lady Desmond, looking up from her book for a moment.
"Mind you bring him in to lunch; I want to speak to him."

"He doesn't care much about lunch, I fancy," said he; "and, maybe,
we shall be halfway to Millstreet by that time."

"Never mind, but do as I tell you. You expect everybody to be as
wild and wayward as yourself." And the countess smiled on her son in
a manner which showed that she was proud even of his wildness and
his waywardness.

Clara had felt that she blushed when she heard that Mr. Fitzgerald
was to be there that morning. She felt that her own manner became
constrained, and was afraid that her mother should look at her. Owen
had said nothing to her about love; and she, child as she was, had
thought nothing about love. But she was conscious of something, she
knew not what. He had touched her hand during those dances as it had
never been touched before; he had looked into her eyes, and her eyes
had fallen before his glance; he had pressed her waist, and she had
felt that there was tenderness in the pressure. So she blushed, and
almost trembled, when she heard that he was coming, and was glad in
her heart when she found that there was neither anger nor sunshine
in her mother's face.

Not long after breakfast, the earl went out on his horse, and met
Owen at some gate or back entrance. In his opinion the old house was
stupid, and the women in it were stupid companions in the morning.
His heart for the moment was engaged on the thought of making his
animal take the most impracticable leaps which he could find, and it