“That is unpleasant, Mr. M’Loughlin.”

“Of course it is,” he replied; “that was my only business, Mr. M’Clutchy, and now I bid you good-day.”

“Not so fast, if you please, Mr. M’Loughlin; do not be in such a hurry.  You remember a meeting you and I had once in Castle Cumber fair?”

“I do.”

“You remember the extraordinary civility with which you treated me?”

“I do, Val, and I only expressed what I thought then and think now; but indeed you have improved the wrong way wonderfully since.”

“Your language was indiscreet then, and it is so now.”

“It was true for all that, Mr. M’Clutchy.”

“Now, might not I, if I wished, take ample revenge for the insulting terms you applied to me?”

“You might, and I suppose you will—­I expect nothing else, for I know you well.”

“You do not know me.  Mr. M’Loughlin, so far from acting up to what you imagine, I shall not avail myself of your position; I have no such intention, I assure you, so that whatever apprehensions you may entertain from others, you need have none from me.  And, now, Mr. M’Loughlin, do you not perceive that you judged me unjustly and uncharitably?”

“That’s to be seen yet, Mr. M’Clutchy, time will tell.”

“Well, then, make your mind easy; I shall take no proceedings in consequence of your situation—­so far from that, I shall wait patiently till it is your convenience to pay the rent—­so now, I wish you good day, Mr. M’Loughlin.”

“That is a beautiful exhibition of Christian spirit,” exclaimed Solomon, “good works are truly the fruit of faith.”

“Before you go,” said Phil, with a sneer, “will you allow me to ask how poor Mary is.”

M’Loughlin paused, and calmly looked first at Phil, and then at his father.

“Phil,” said the latter, “I shall order you out of the room, sir, if I hear another word on that unfortunate subject.  I am very sorry, I assure you, Mr. M’Loughlin, for that untoward transaction—­to be sure, I wish your daughter had been a little more prudent, but young ladies cannot, or at least, do not always regulate their passions or attachments; and so, when they make a false step, they must suffer for it.  As for myself, I can only express my sincere regret that the faux pas happened, and that it should have got wind in such a way as to deprive the poor girl of her character.”

After contemplating the father and son for some time alternately, with a look in which was visible the most withering contempt and scorn, and which made them both quail before him, he replied: 

“Your falsehood, scoundrels, is as vindictive as it is cowardly, and you both know it; but I am an honest man, and I feel to stoop to a defence of my virtuous child against either of you, would be a degradation to her as well as to myself.  I therefore go, leaving you my contempt and scorn, I could almost say my pity.”