We all then went in to dinner how we best could. It was useless for us to go back into the drawing-room, that each might seek his own partner. Mr. O’Conor “the masther,” not caring much for the girls who were around him, and being already half beside himself with the confusion and delay, led the way by himself. I as a stranger should have given my arm to Mrs. O’Conor; but as it was I took her eldest daughter instead, and contrived to shuffle along into the dining-room without exciting much attention, and when there I found myself happily placed between Kate and Fanny. “I never knew anything so awkward,” said Fanny; “I declare I can’t conceive what has come to our old servant Larry. He’s generally the most precise person in the world, and now he is nearly an hour late—and then he tumbles down in the hall.” “I am afraid I am responsible for the delay,” said I. “But not for the tumble I suppose,” said Kate from the other side. I felt that I blushed up to the eyes, but I did not dare to enter into explanations. “Tom,” said Tizzy, addressing her father across the table, “I hope you had a good run to-day.” It did seem odd to me that young lady should call her father Tom, but such was the fact. “Well; pretty well,” said Mr. O’Conor. “And I hope you were up with the hounds.” “You may ask Mr. Green that. He at any rate was with them, and therefore he can tell you.” “Oh, he wasn’t before you, I know. No Englishman could get before you;—I am quite sure of that.” “Don’t you be impertinent, miss,” said Kate. “You can easily see, Mr. Green, that papa spoils my sister Eliza.” “Do you hunt in top-boots, Mr. Green?” said Tizzy. To this I made no answer. She would have drawn me into a conversation about my feet in half a minute, and the slightest allusion to the subject threw me into a fit of perspiration. “Are you fond of hunting, Miss O’Conor?” asked I, blindly hurrying into any other subject of conversation. Miss O’Conor owned that she was fond of hunting—just a little; only papa would not allow it. When the hounds met anywhere within reach of Castle Conor, she and Kate would ride out to look at them; and if papa was not there that day,—an omission of rare occurrence,—they would ride a few fields with the hounds. “But he lets Tizzy keep with them the whole day,” said she, whispering. “And has Tizzy a pony of her own?” “Oh yes, Tizzy has everything. She’s papa’s pet, you know.” “And whose pet are you?” I asked. “Oh—I am nobody’s pet, unless sometimes Jack makes a pet of me when he’s in a good humour. Do you make pets of your sisters, Mr. Green?” “I have none. But if I had I should not make pets of them.” “Not of your own sisters?” “No. As for myself, I’d sooner make a pet of my friend’s sister; a great deal.” “How very unnatural,” said Miss O’Conor, with the prettiest look of surprise imaginable.