“Sure, luck is an idiot,” he burst out presently, wrathful from his memories.  “It reminds me of a fool of a wench that passes over a gentleman and flings herself at a lout.  For, lookye, there was two of us in London, a rascal Irishman and me, that lived in the same lodgings.  We did that to save cost, after we’d both had dogs’ fortune at the cards and the faro-table.  If it hadn’t been for a good-natured woman or two—­I spoke ill of the breed just now, but they have their merits—­we’d have had no lodgings at all then, except the Fleet, maybe, or Newgate, if it had come to that.  Well, as I was saying, we were both as near starvation as ever I wish to be, the Irishman and me.  There we were, poverty-stricken as rats, both tarred with the same stick, no difference between us except he was an ugly brute, and a scoundrel, and a man of no family.  Now if either of us deserved good fortune, it certainly was me; there can’t be any question of that.  And yet, here I am, driven to the damnedest tedious time of it for bare food and shelter, and compelled to drink ale when I’m—­oh, curse it, gentlemen, was ever such rotten luck?”

Cornelius, whom disillusion had stricken into speechlessness at this revelation of the old Ned under the masquerade, sighed heavily and looked pained.  But Philip, always curious upon matters of human experience, asked: 

“What of the Irishman?”

“Driving in his chariot, the dog!  Swaggering in Pall Mall; eating and drinking at taverns that it makes my mouth water to think of; laying his hundred guineas a throw, if he likes.  Oh, the devil!  The fat of London for that fellow; and me cast off here in New York to the most hellish dull life!  ’Tisn’t a fair dispensation; upon my soul it isn’t!”

“And what made him so fortunate?” inquired Philip.

“Ay, that’s the worst of it!  What good are a man’s relations?  What good are mine, at least?  For that knave had only one relation, but she was of some use, Lord knows!  When it came to the worst with him, he walked to Bristol, and begged or stole passage to Ireland, and hunted up his sister, who had a few pounds a year of her own.  He had thought of borrowing a guinea or two, to try his fortune with again.  But when he saw his sister, he found she’d grown up into a beauty—­no more of a beauty than my sisters, though; but she was a girl of enterprise and spirit.  I don’t say Madge isn’t that; but she’s married and done for.  But Fanny—­well, I don’t see anything brilliant in store for Fanny.”

“What has she to do with the affairs of your Irishman?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing.  She’s a different kind from this Irish lady.  For what did that girl do, after her brother had seen her and got the idea, than pack up and come to London with him.  And he showed her around so well, and her fine looks made such an impression, that within three months he had her married to a lord’s son—­the heir to Lord Ilverton’s estates and title.  And now she’s a made woman, and he’s a made man, and what do you think of that for a lucky brother and a clever sister?  And yet, compared with Fanny—­”