Phil merely looked his astonishment.

“Now, sir, you mayn’t think it,” says Mr. Ned, “but my word has some weight with Fanny.”

“Fanny?” echoed Philip.  “What has she to do with it?”

“Why, everything, I fancy.  The lady usually has—­”

“But Fanny isn’t the lady.”

“What?  Then who the devil is?”

“I don’t think ’tis a matter need be talked of now,” said Phil.

“But I’d like to know—­’gad, it can’t be the other sister!  Madge—­that spitfire!  Well, well!  Your face speaks, if your tongue won’t.  Who’d have thought any man would go soft over such a vixen?  Well, I can’t help you there, my lad!”

“I haven’t asked your help,” says Phil with a smile.

“Now, it’s a pity,” says Ned, dolefully, “for I thought by doing you a good turn I might get you to do me another.”

“Oh, I see!  Why, then, as for my doing you a good turn if it’s possible, speak out.  What is it?”

“Now, I call that noble of you, Phil; damned noble!  I do need a good turn, and that’s a fact.  You see I didn’t tell my father exactly the truth as to my leaving the Barbadoes.  Not that I don’t scorn a lie, but I was considerate of the old gentleman’s feelings.  I couldn’t endure to shock him in his tenderest place.  You understand?”

“I probably shall when you’ve finished.”

“Why, I dare say you know what the old man’s tenderest place is.  Well, if you won’t answer, ’tis his pride in the family name, the spotless name of Faringfield!  Oh, I’ve worked upon that more than once, I tell you.  The old gentleman will do much to keep the name without a blemish; I could always bring him to terms by threatening to disgrace it—­”

“What a rascal you’ve been, then!”

“Why, maybe so; we’re not all saints.  But I’ve always kept my word with father, and whenever he gave me the money I wanted, or set me up in life again, I kept the name clean—­comparatively clean, that is to say, as far as any one in New York might know.  And even this time—­at the Barbadoes—­’twasn’t with any purpose of punishing father, I vow; ’twas for my necessities, I made myself free with a thousand pounds of Culverson’s.”

“The devil!  Do you mean you embezzled a thousand pounds?”

“One cool, clean thousand!  My necessities, I tell you.  There was a debt of honour, you must know; a damned unlucky run at the cards, and the navy officer that won came with a brace of pistols and gave me two days in which to pay.  And then there was a lady—­with a brat, confound her!—­to be sent to England, and looked after.  You see, ’twas honour moved me in the first case, and chivalry in the second.  As a gentleman, I couldn’t withstand the promptings of noble sentiments like those.”

“Well, what then?”

“Why, then I came away.  And I hadn’t the heart to break the truth to father, knowing how ’twould cut him up.  I thought of the old gentleman’s family pride, his gray hairs—­his hair is gray by this time, isn’t it?—­”