And presently, although the sting remained, the memory of the wasp that had stung seemed to be lost.  Milord and Mr. Adair engaged in a long and learned discussion concerning the principles of Liberalism, in the course of which many allusions were made to the new Coercion Bill, which, it was now agreed, Mr. Gladstone would, in a few days, lay before Parliament.  The provisions of this Bill were debated.  Milord spoke of an Act that had been in force consequent on the Fenian rising in ’69.  Mr. Adair was of opinion that the importance of a new Coercion Act could not be over-estimated; Mr. Barton declared in favour of a military expedition—­a rapid dash into the heart of Connemara.  But the conversation languished, and in the ever-lengthening silences all found their thoughts reverting to the idea brutally expressed by Mr. Ryan:  Yes, they were glad; for if Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke had not been assassinated, every landowner in the country would have been murdered.

There was no dancing that evening; and as the night advanced the danger of the long drive home increased in intensity in the minds of Messrs. Lynch and Ryan.  They sat on either side of Mr. Adair, and it was finally arranged that they should join their police-forces, and spend the night at his place.  Sir Charles was sleeping at Brookfield; Milord had four policemen with him; and as all would have to pass his gate, he did not anticipate that even the Land League would venture to attack thirteen armed men.  Mr. Barton, who saw the picturesque in everything, declared, when he came back, that they looked like a caravan starting for a pilgrimage across the desert.  After a few further remarks, the ladies rose to retire; but when Mrs. Barton gave her hand to Lord Kilcarney, he said, his voice trembling a little: 

’I’m afraid I must leave you to-morrow, Mrs. Barton.  I shall have to run over to London to vote in the House of Lords. . .’

Mrs. Barton led the poor little man into the farther corner of the room, and making a place for him by her side, she said: 

’Of course we are very sorry you are leaving—­we should like you to stop a little longer with us.  Is it impossible for you. . . ?’

‘I am afraid so, Mrs. Barton; it is very kind of you, but—­’

‘It is a great pity,’ she answered; ’but before we part I should like to know if you have come to any conclusion about what I spoke to you of in Dublin.  If it is not to be, I should like to know, that I might tell the girl, so that she might not think anything more about—­’

‘What am I to say, what am I to do?’ thought the Marquis.  ’Oh! why does this woman worry me?  How can I tell her that I wouldn’t marry her daughter for tens of thousands of pounds?’ ’I think, Mrs. Barton—­I mean, I think you will agree with me that until affairs in Ireland grow more settled, it would be impossible for anyone to enter into any engagements whatever.  We are all on the brink of ruin.’