"I hear your nephew is the candidate chosen by the Nationalists here
for the next election, Miss Coppinger," he said, his pale eyes
regarding her drearily over the top of his spectacles.
Frederica sat erect in her chair with a jerk, and a hot red sprang,
like a danger-signal, to her face.
"I've heard nothing of it," she said stoutly, but with a leaping heart
of horror. "How do you know it is the case?"
"It is commonly reported in the town," replied Mr. Cotton, "One hears
these things--"
"I can't believe it--I can't believe it," said Frederica; the colour
had left her cheeks, and her eyes hurried from Mr. Cotton's face to
Mrs. St. George's, and roved on to Mrs. Kirby, who was seated near,
and had evidently felt the wind of the shot.
"Why, the boy is only just twenty-one!" said Mrs. Kirby, rolling
herself and her chair back into action to the support of her friend.
"With all deference to you, Mr. Cotton, I don't believe a word of it!
Of course, Larry would have told you, Frederica! I can well believe
that those Gaelic League people would like to have him if they can get
him! Depend upon it, the wish is father to the thought!"
Frederica made no reply; her lips were tightly compressed, and her
unseeing eyes, though they appeared to be fixed on Mrs. Kirby's broad
and friendly face, were looking along the paths of memory to the time
when that barrier of ice had not arisen between her and Larry.
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