was dignified gravity, which seemed to others like frigid acidity:
"Do I understand, Colonel Ogilvie, that you are a consenting party to another "irregular'"—she quivered as she said the word—"marriage? And that my daughter is to be made a laughing stock amongst all our acquaintances by three different marriages?"
"That is so, my dear. It is for Joy's good!"
"Her good? Fiddlesticks! But in that case I have nothing more to say!" Some of her wrath seemed to be turned on both Athlyne and Joy; for she did not say a single word to either of them. She simply relapsed into stony silence.
Mrs. O'Brien's reception of the news afforded what might be termed the "comic relief" of the strained situation. She raised her hands, as though in protest to heaven for allowing such a thing, and emitted a loud wail such as a "keener" raises at an Irish wake. Then she burst into voluble speech:
"Oh wirrasthrue me darlin' bhoy, is it a haythen Turk y' are becomin', to take another wife whin ye've got one already only a day ould. An such a wan more betoken—the beautifullest darlinest young cratur what iver I seen! Her that I picked out long ago as the only wan that ye was good enough for. Shure, couldn't ye rist content wid Miss Joy, me darlin'? It's lookin' forward I was to nursin' her childher, as I nursed yerself me lord darlin', her childher, an yours! An' now it's another woman steppin' in betune ye; an' maybe there'll be no childher at all, at all. Wirrasthrue!"
"But look here, Nanny," said Athlyne with some impatience. "Can't you see that you're all wrong. It is to Joy that I am going to marry again! There's no other woman coming in between us. 'Tis only the dear girl herself!"
"Ah, that's all very well, me lord darlin'; but which iv
