ever came to breakfast, and only entered the drawing-room
a short time before dinner. Kate, who had counted on her companionship and
society, and hoped to see her sharing with her the little cares and duties
of her life, and taking interest in her pursuits, was sorely grieved at
her estrangement, but continued to believe it would wear off with time
and familiarity with the place. Kearney himself, in secret, resented
the freedom with which she disregarded the discipline of his house, and
grumbled at times over foreign ways and habits that he had no fancy to
see under his roof. When she did appear, however, her winning manners,
her grace, and a certain half-caressing coquetry she could practise to
perfection, so soothed and amused him that he soon forgot any momentary
displeasure, and more than once gave up his evening visit to the club at
Moate to listen to her as she sang, or hear her sketch off some trait of
that Roman society in which British pretension and eccentricity often
figured so amusingly.

Like a faithful son of the Church, too, he never wearied hearing of the
Pope and of the Cardinals, of glorious ceremonials of the Church, and
festivals observed with all the pomp and state that pealing organs,
and incense, and gorgeous vestments could confer. The contrast between
the sufferance under which his Church existed at home and the honours
and homage rendered to it abroad, were a fruitful stimulant to that
disaffection he felt towards England, and would not unfrequently lead him
away to long diatribes about penal laws and the many disabilities which had
enslaved Ireland, and reduced himself, the descendant of a princely race,
to the condition of a ruined gentleman.

To Kate these complainings were ever distasteful; she had but one
philosophy, which was 'to bear up well,' and when, not that, 'as well as
you could.' She saw scores of things around her to be remedied, or, at
least, bettered, by a little exertion, and not one which could be helped
by a vain regret. For the loss of that old barbaric splendour and profuse
luxury which her father mourned over, she had no regrets. She knew that
these wasteful and profligate livers had done nothing for the people either
in act or in example; that they were a selfish, worthless, self-indulgent
race, caring for nothing but their pleasures, and making all their
patriotism consist in a hate towards England.

These were not Nina's thoughts. She liked all these stories of a time