When Lady Dashfort thought she had sufficiently worked upon Lord Colambre’s mind to weaken his enthusiasm for his native country; and when Lady Isabel had, by the appearance of every virtue, added to a delicate preference, if not partiality for our hero, ingratiated herself into his good opinion, and obtained an interest in his mind, the wily mother ventured an attack of a more decisive nature; and so contrived it was, that if it failed, it should appear to have been made without design to injure, and in total ignorance. One day, Lady Dashfort, who, in fact, was not proud of her family, though she pretended to be so, was herself prevailed on, though with much difficulty, by Lady Killpatrick, to do the very thing she wanted to do, to show her genealogy, which had been beautifully blazoned, and which was to be produced in evidence in the lawsuit that brought her to Ireland. Lord Colambre stood politely looking on and listening, while her ladyship explained the splendid intermarriages of her family, pointing to each medallion that was filled gloriously with noble, and even with royal names, till at last she stopped short, and covering one medallion with her finger, she said, “Pass over that, dear Lady Killpatrick. You are not to see that, Lord Colambre--that’s a little blot in our scutcheon. You know, Isabel, we never talk of that prudent match of great uncle John’s: what could he expect by marrying into _that_ family, where, you know, all the men were not _sans peur_, and none of the women _sans reproche_?” “Oh, mamma!” cried Lady Isabel, “not one exception!” “Not one, Isabel,” persisted Lady Dashfort: “there was Lady ----, and the other sister, that married the man with the long nose; and the daughter again, of whom they contrived to make an honest woman, by getting her married in time to a _blue riband_, and who contrived to get herself into Doctors’ Commons the very next year.” “Well, dear mamma, that is enough, and too much. Oh! pray don’t go on,” cried Lady Isabel, who had appeared very much distressed during her mother’s speech. “You don’t know what you are saying: indeed, ma’am, you don’t.” “Very likely, child; but that compliment I can return to you on the spot, and with interest; for you seem to me, at this instant, not to know either what you are saying, or what you are doing. Come, come, explain.” “Oh, no, ma’am--Pray say no more; I will explain myself another time.” “Nay, there you are wrong, Isabel; in point of good-breeding, any thing is better than hints and mystery. Since I have been so unlucky as to touch upon the subject, better go through with it, and, with all the boldness of innocence, I ask the question, Are you, my Lord Colambre, or are you not, related to or connected with any of the St. Omars?” “Not that I know of,” said Lord Colambre; “but I really am so bad a genealogist, that I cannot answer positively.”