’I have seen him, sir—­I met him yesterday at Mr. Mordicai’s, the coachmaker’s.’

‘Mordicai’s!’ exclaimed Lord Clonbrony, with a sudden blush, which he endeavoured to hide by taking snuff.  ’He is a damned rascal, that Mordicai!  I hope you didn’t believe a word he said—­nobody does that knows him.’

’I am glad, sir, that you seem to know him so well, and to be upon your guard against him,’ replied Lord Colambre; ’for, from what I heard of his conversation, when he was not aware who I was, I am convinced he would do you any injury in his power.’

’He shall never have me in his power, I promise him.  We shall take care of that.  But what did he say?’

Lord Colambre repeated the substance of what Mordicai had said, and Lord Clonbrony reiterated—­’Damned rascal!—­damned rascal!  I’ll get out of his hands; I’ll have no more to do with him.’  But, as he spoke, he exhibited evident symptoms of uneasiness, moving continually, and shifting from leg to leg like a foundered horse.

He could not bring himself positively to deny that he had debts and difficulties; but he would by no means open the state of his affairs to his son—­’No father is called upon to do that,’ said he to himself; ‘none but a fool would do it.’

Lord Colambre, perceiving his father’s embarrassment, withdrew his eyes, respectfully refrained from all further inquiries, and simply repeated the assurance he had made to his mother, that he would put his family to no additional expense; and that, if it was necessary, he would willingly give up half his allowance.

‘Not at all—­not at all, my dear boy,’ said his father; ’I would rather cramp myself than that you should be cramped, a thousand times over.  But it is all my Lady Clonbrony’s nonsense.  If people would but, as they ought, stay in their own country, live on their own estates, and kill their own mutton, money need never be wanting.’

For killing their own mutton, Lord Colambre did not see the indispensable necessity; but he rejoiced to hear his father assert that people should reside in their own country.

‘Ay,’ cried Lord Clonbrony, to strengthen his assertion, as he always thought it necessary to do, by quoting some other person’s opinion.  ’So Sir Terence O’Fay always says, and that’s the reason your mother can’t endure poor Terry.  You don’t know Terry?  No, you have only seen him; but, indeed, to see him is to know him; for he is the most off-hand, good fellow in Europe.’

‘I don’t pretend to know him yet,’ said Lord Colambre.  ’I am not so presumptuous as to form my opinion at first sight.’

‘Oh, curse your modesty!’ interrupted Lord Clonbrony; ’you mean, you don’t pretend to like him yet; but Terry will make you like him.  I defy you not.  I’ll introduce you to him—­him to you, I mean—­most warn-hearted, generous dog upon earth—­convivial—­jovial—­with wit and humour enough, in his own way, to split you—­split me if he has not.  You need not cast down your eyes, Colambre.  What’s your objection?’