On the following morning at breakfast, his uncle asked him where he had dined the day before.

“With Hycy Burke, sir,” replied the nephew.

“Yes; that is honest Jemmy’s son—­a very great man in his own conceit, Harry.  You seem to like him very much.”

Harry felt a good deal puzzled as to the nature of his reply.  He knew very well that his uncle did not relish Hycy, and he felt that he could not exactly state his opinion of him without bringing in question his own penetration and good taste in keeping his society.  Then, with respect to his sister, although he had no earthly intention of seeing her the wife of such a person, still he resolved to be able to say to Hycy that he had not broken his word, a consideration which would not have bound Hycy one moment under the same circumstances.

“He’s a very pleasant young fellow, sir,” replied the other, “and has been exceedingly civil and attentive to me.”

“Ay!—­do you like him—­do you esteem him, I mean?”

“I dare say I will, sir, when I come to know him better.”

“Which is as much as to say that at present you do not.  So I thought.  You have a portion of good sense about you, but in a thousand things you’re a jackass, Harry.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied his nephew, laughing heartily; “thank you for the compliment.  I am your nephew, you know.”

“You have a parcel of d——­d scruples, I say, that are ridiculous.  What the devil need a man care about in this world but appearances?  Mind your own interests, keep up appearances, and you have done your duty.”

“But I should like to do a little more than keep up appearances,” replied his nephew.

“I know you would,” said his uncle, “and it is for that especial reason that I say you’re carrying the ears.  I’m now a long time in the world, Masther Harry—­sixty-two years—­although I don’t look it, nor anything like it, and in the course of that time—­or, at all events, ever since I was able to form my own opinions, I never met a man that wasn’t a rogue in something, with the exception of—­let me see—­one—­two—­three—­four—­five—­I’m not able to make out the half-dozen.”

“And who were the five honorable exceptions?” asked his niece, smiling.

“They were the five fools of the parish, Maria—­and yet I am wrong, still—­for Bob M’Cann was as thievish as the very devil whenever he had an opportunity.  And now, do you know the conclusion I come to from all this?”

“I suppose,” said his niece, “that no man’s honest but a fool.”

“Thank you, Maria, Well done—­you’ve hit it.  By the way, it’s seems M’Mahon’s wife, of Carriglass, is dead.”

“Is she?” said Harry; “that is a respectable family, father, by all accounts.”

“Why, they neither rob nor steal, I believe,” replied his uncle.  “They are like most people, I suppose, honest in the eye of the law—­honest because the laws keep them so.”