‘Oh, Lady Sarah,’ exclaimed Mrs. Gould, ’I do not know how you have such beautiful flowers—­and in this wretched climate!’

‘Yes, it is very trying; but then we have a great deal of glass.’

‘Which do you prefer, roses or azaleas?’ asked Mrs. Barton.

’Les roses sont les fleurs en corsage, mais les azalees sont les fleurs en peignoir.’

Lady Sarah and Lady Jane, who had both overheard the remark, levelled indignant glances at their father, scornful looks at Mrs. Barton, and, to avoid further amatory allusions, Lady Sarah said: 

’I do not think we shall soon have bread, much less flowers, to place on our tables, if the Government do not step in and put down the revolution that is going on in this country.’

Everyone, except the young girls, looked questioningly at each other, and the mutuality of their interests on this point became at once apparent.

’Ah, Lord Dungory! do you think we shall be able to collect our rents this year?  What reduction do you intend to give?’

Lord Dungory, who had no intention of showing his hand, said: 

’The Land League has, I believe, advised the people to pay no more than Griffith’s valuation.  I do not know if your lands are let very much above it?’

’If you have not seen the Evening Mail you have probably not heard of the last terrible outrage,’ said Captain Hibbert; and, amid a profound silence, he continued:  ’I do not know if anybody here is acquainted with a Mr. Macnamara; he lives in Meath.’

‘Oh! you don’t say anything has happened to him?  I knew his cousin,’ exclaimed Mrs. Gould.

Captain Hibbert looked round with his bland, good-looking stare, and, as no nearer relative appeared to be present, he resumed his story: 

’He was, it seems, sitting smoking after dinner, when suddenly two shots were fired through the windows.’

At this moment a champagne-cork slipped through the butler’s fingers and went off with a bang.

‘Oh, goodness me! what’s that?’ exclaimed Mrs. Gould; and, to pass off their own fears, everyone was glad to laugh at the old lady.  It was not until Captain Hibbert told that Mr. Macnamara had been so severely wounded that his life was despaired of, that the chewing faces became grave again.

‘And I hear that Macnamara had the foinest harses in Mathe,’ said Mr. Ryan; ‘I very nearly sold him one last year at the harse show.’

Mr. Ryan was the laughing-stock of the country, and a list of the grotesque sayings he was supposed, on different occasions, to have been guilty of, was constantly in progress of development.  He lived with his cousin, Mr. Lynch, and, in conjunction, they farmed large tracts of land.  Mr. Ryan was short and thick; Mr. Lynch was taller and larger, and a pair of mutton-chop whiskers made his bloated face look bigger still.  On either side of the white tablecloth their dirty hands fumbled at their shirt-studs, that constantly threatened to fall through the worn buttonholes.  They were, nevertheless, received everywhere, and Pathre, as Mr. Ryan was called by his friends, was permitted the licences that are usually granted to the buffoon.