“For what?”

“Why, it is said that the fair lady with whom you are about to commit the crime of matrimony is virtuous and religious, as well as beautiful and so forth; and, in that case, perhaps he is about to prepare you for the expected conference.  I cannot guess anything else, unless, perhaps, it may be the avarice of age about to rebuke the profusion and generosity of youth.  In that case, my lord, keep your temper, and don’t compromise your friends.”

“Never fear, Tom; I have already fought more battles on your account than you could dream of.  Perhaps, after all, it is nothing.  Of late he has sent for me occasionally, as if to speak upon some matter of importance, when, after chatting upon the news of the day or lecturing me for supporting an impostor—­meaning you—­he has said he would defer the subject on which he wished to speak, until another opportunity.  Whatever it is, he seems afraid of it, or perhaps the respectable old peer is doting.”

“I dare say, my lord, it is very natural he should at these years; but if he,” proceeded Norton, laughing, “is doting now, what will you be at his years?  Here, however, is his confidential man, Morty O’Flaherty.”

O’Flaherty now entered, and after making a bow that still smacked strongly of Tipperary, delivered his message.

“My masther, Lord Cullamore, wishes to see you, my lord.  He has come down stairs, and is facing the sun, the Lord be praised, in the back drawin’-room.”

“Go, my lord,” said Norton; “perhaps he wishes you to make a third luminary.  Go and help him to face the sun.”

“Be my sowl, Mr. Norton, if I’m not much mistaken, it’s the father he’ll have to face.  I may as well give you the hard word, my lord—­troth, I think you had better be on your edge; he’s as dark as midnight, although the sun is in his face.”

His lordship went out, after having given two or three yawns, stretched himself, and shrugged his shoulders, like a man who was about to enter upon some unpleasant business with manifest reluctance.

“Ah,” exclaimed Morty, looking after him, “there goes a cute boy—­at last, God forgive him, he’s of that opinion himself.  What a pity there’s not more o’ the family; they’d ornament the counthry.”

“Say, rather, Morty, that there’s one too many.”

“Faith, and I’m sure, Barney, you oughtn’t to think so.  Beg pardon—­Mr. Norton.”

“Morty, curse you, will you be cautious?  But why should I not think so?”

“For sound raisons, that no man knows better than yourself.”

“I’m not the only person that thinks there’s one too many of the family, Morty.  In that opinion I am ably supported by his lordship, just gone out there.”

“Where!  Ay, I see whereabouts you are now.  One too many—­faith, so the blessed pair of you think, no doubt.”

“Eight, Morty; if the devil had the agency of the ancient earl’s soul, I would soon get that of his ancient property; but whilst he lives it can’t be accomplished.  What do you imagine the old bawble wants with the young one?”