"Yes, miss," whereupon Monica prepares to leave the room; but the new maid stops her. "If ye please, Miss Monica," she says, hesitating, and applying her apron to her lips. "Yes, Canty?" "I'd be very thankful to ye, miss, if ye wouldn't call me that." "Call you what?" "Canty, miss." "But," astonished, "isn't it your name?" "No, miss; me name is Bridget." "But surely Canty is your name, too?" "Well, it's me father's name, miss, no doubt; but faix I feel just like a boy when ye call me by it, an' ye wouldn't like me to feel like a boy, miss, would ye?" says the village beauty casting an anxious glance at Monica from her dark Irish eyes, and blushing deeply. "Certainly not," says Monica, laughing a little. "Very well, Bridget; I shall try to forget you ever had a surname." "Thank ye, miss," says Bridget, with a sigh of profound relief. Then Monica runs downstairs, where she finds her aunts in the drawing-room, dressed in their very best silk gowns, waiting for the carriage to come round. There is a little delay, which wasted time the two old ladies spend in endeavoring to drill Terence into shape. Something of this sort is going on as Monica enters. "When I introduce you to Madam O'Connor or Lady Rossmoyne, my dear boy, be sure you make a very low bow. Nothing distinguishes a gentleman so much from the common herd as the manner of his salute. Now make me a bow, that I may judge of your style." Thus Miss Priscilla. "I couldn't make one to order like that," says Terence; yet he sulkily complies, making a very short, stiff, and uncompromising nod that makes both aunts lift their hands in dismay. "Oh, no, my dear!--that won't do _at all_! Most ungraceful, and totally devoid of the dignity that should inspire it. Now look at me. It should be something like _this_," making him a reverence that might well have created admiration in the court of Queen Anne. "Ah, yes! that is something like what it should be," chimes in Miss Penelope, paying a tribute to the talent of her sister. "Priscilla has caught the true tone. I wish, Terence, we could see you more like your dear grandfather; _he_ was a man to bow." Terence, calling to mind the portrait of his "dear grandfather," as represented in the elaborate gilt frame in the dining-room, in a court suit and a periwig, and with an abominable simper, most devoutly thanks his gods that he is _not_ like unto him. He is, indeed (feeling goaded to the last degree), about to break into unseemly language, when, fortunately, the arrival of the ancient equipage that has done duty at Moyne as state carriage for generations is announced. The coachman, who is considerably older than Timothy, draws up the old horses before the door with a careful manner that impresses the beholder with the belief that he thinks they would run away in a minute if he relaxed a muscle on the reins; and a small boy who acts as footman and looks decidedly depressed, lets down the rickety steps.