Mr. Norton, in a few moments, was ushered into the presence of Lord Cullamore.

On entering the apartment, the old nobleman, with easy and native courtesy, rose up, and received him with every mark of attention and respect.

“I am happy, Mr. Norton,” he proceeded, “to have it in my power to thank you for the friendship and kindness which my son, Lord Dunroe, has been so fortunate as to receive at your hands.  He speaks of you with such warmth, and in terms of such high esteem, that I felt naturally anxious to make your acquaintance, as his friend.  Pray be seated.”

Norton, who was a quick and ready fellow, in more senses than one, bowed lowly, and with every mark of the deepest respect; but, at the same time, he certainly started upon a high and a rather hazardous theory—­to wit, that of a man of consequence, who wished to be considered with respect to Dunroe rather as a patron than a dependent.

The fellow, we should have stated to the reader, was originally from Kerry, though he adopted Connaught, and consequently had a tolerable acquaintance with Latin and Greek—­an acquisition which often stood him in stead through life; joined to which was an assurance that nothing short of a scrutiny such as Morty O’Maherty’s could conquer.

“I assure you, my lord,” he replied, “you quite overrate any trifling services I may have rendered to my friend Dunroe.  Upon my soul and honor you do.  I have done nothing for him—­that is, nothing to speak of.  But the truth is, I took a fancy to Dunroe; and I do assure you again, Lord Cullamore, that when I do take a fancy to any person—­a rare case with me, I grant—­I would go any possible lengths to serve him.  Every man has his whim, my lord, and that is mine.  I hope your lordship had a pleasant trip across Channel?”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Norton; but I have been for some time past in delicate health, and am not now so capable of bearing the trip as formerly.  Still I feel no reason to complain, although far from strong.  Dunroe, I perceive, is reduced considerably by his wound and the consequent confinement.”

“Oh, naturally, of course, my lord; but a few days now will set him upon his legs.”

“That, it seems to me, Mr. Norton, was a very foolish and unpleasant affair altogether.”

“Nothing could be more so, my lord.  It was altogether wrong on the part of Dunroe, and so I told him.”

“Could you not have prevented it, Mr. Norton?”

“Ha, ha, ha! very good, Lord Cullamore.  Ask me could I prevent or check a flash of lightning.  Upon my soul and honor, the thing was over, and my poor friend down, before you could say ’Jack Robinson’—­hem!—­as we say in Connaught.”

“You have travelled, too, with my son, Mr. Norton, and he is perfectly sensible of the services you have rendered him during his tour.”

“God forbid, my Lord Cullamore, that I should assume any superiority over poor, kind-hearted, and honorable Dunroe; but as you are his father, my lord, I may—­and with pride and satisfaction I do it—­put the matter on its proper footing, and say, that Dunroe travelled with me.  The thing is neither here nor there, of course, nor would I ever allude to it unless as a proof of my regard and affection for him.”