“You have not made so bad a guess of it, Dan; but what say the rest? What's the town gossip?” “Do you not know Dublin as well or better than I do? Can't you frame to a very letter every syllable that has been uttered on the subject? or need I describe to you my Lady Kilfoyle's fan-shaking horror as she tells of 'that poor dear Carew, and his unfortunate marriage with Heaven knows whom!' Nor Bob French's astonishment that you, of all men, should marry out of your sphere,--or, as he calls it, your 'spire.' Nor how graphically Mrs. Stapleton Harris narrates the manner of your entanglement: how you fought two brothers, and only gave in to the superior force of an outraged mamma and the tears of your victim! Nor fifty other similar stories, in which you figured alternately as the dupe or the deceived,--the only point of agreement being a universal reprobation of one who, with all his pretentions to patriotism, should have entirely forgotten the claims of Irish manufacture.” “And are they all so severe,--so unjust?” “Very nearly. The only really warm defender I 've heard of you, was one from whom you probably least expected it.” “And who might that be?” “Can't you guess, Watty?” “Harry Blake--Redmond--George Macartney?” “Confound it, you don't think I mean a man!” “A woman,--who could she be? Not Sally Talbot; not Lady Jane Rivers; not--” “Kitty Dwyer; and I think you might have guessed her before, Watty! It is rather late, to be sure, to think of it; but my belief is that you ought to have married that girl.” “She refused me, Dan. She refused me,” said my father, growing red, between shame and a sense of irritation. “There 's a way of asking that secures a refusal, Watty. Don't tell me Kitty was not fond of you. I ought to know, for she told me so herself.” “She told you so,” cried my father, slowly.