“Of life, sir—­why, that we are to take the most we can out of it.  Of the world—­that I despise it.  Of man—­that every one is a rogue when he’s found out, and that if he suffers himself to be found out he’s a fool; so that the fools and the rogues have it between them.”

“And where do you leave the honest men, Tom?”

“The what, sir?”

“The honest men.”

“I’m not acquainted, sir, nor have I ever met a man who was, with any animal of that class.  The world, sir, is a moral fiction; a mere term in language that represents negation.”

“Well, but woman?”

“Born to administer to our pleasure, our interest, or our ambition, with no other purpose in life.  Have I answered my catechism like a good boy, sir?”

“Very well, indeed, Tom.  Why, in your notions of life and the world, you seem to be quite an adept.”

“I am glad, sir, that you approve of them.  So far we are likely to agree.  I feel quite proud, sir, that my sentiments are in unison with yours.  But where is my sister, sir?  I am quite impatient to see her.”

“I will send for her immediately.  And now that I have an opportunity, let me guard you against her influence.  I am anxious to bring about a marriage between her and a young nobleman—­Lord Dunroe—­who will soon be the Earl of Cullamore, for his old father is dying, or near it, and then Lucy will be a countess.  To effect this has been the great ambition of my life.  Now, you must not only prevent Lucy from gaining you over to her interests, for she would nearly as soon die as marry him.”

“Pshaw!”

“What do you pshaw for, Tom?”

“All nonsense, sir.  She doesn’t know her own mind; or, rather, she ought to have no mind on the subject.”

“Perfectly right; my identical sentiments.  Lucy, however, detests this lord, notwithstanding—­ay, worse than she does the deuce himself.  You must, therefore, not permit yourself to be changed or swayed by her influence, but support me by every argument and means in your power.”

“Don’t fear me, sir.  Your interests, or rather the girl’s own, if she only knows them, shall have my most strenuous support.”

“Thank you, Tom.  I see that you and I are likely to agree thoroughly.  I shall now send for her.  She is a superb creature, and less than a countess I shall not have her.”

Lucy, when the servant announced her father’s wish to see her, was engaged in picturing to herself the subject of her brother’s personal appearance.  She had always heard that he resembled her mother, and on this account alone she felt how very dear he should be to her.  With a flushing, joyful, but palpitating heart, she descended the stairs, and with a trembling hand knocked at the door.  On entering, she was about to rush into her newly-found relative’s arms, but, on casting her eyes around, she perceived her father and him standing side by side, so startlingly alike in feature, expression, and personal figure, that her heart, until then bounding with rapture, sank at once, and almost became still.  The quick but delicate instincts of her nature took the alarm, and a sudden weakness seized her whole frame.  “In this young man,” she said to herself, “I have found a brother, but not a friend; not a feature of my dear mother in that face.”