“I did not think your opinion of the world was so bad, uncle,” said Maria; “I hope it is not so bad as you say it is.”

“All I can say, then,” replied the old Cynic, “that if you wait till you find an honest man for your husband, you’ll die an old maid.”

“Well, but excuse me, uncle, is that safe doctrine to lay down before your nephew, or myself?”

“Pooh, as to you, you silly girl, what have you to do with it?  We’re taikin’ about men, now—­about the world, I say, and life in general.”

“And don’t you wish Harry to be honest?”

“Yes, where it is his interest; and ditto to roguery, where it can be done safely.”

“I know you don’t feel what you say, uncle,” she observed, “nor believe it either.”

“Not he, Maria,” said her brother, awakening out of a reverie; “but, uncle, as to Hycy Burke—­I don’t—­hem.”

“You don’t what?” asked the other, rising and staring at him.

His nephew looked at his sister, and was silent.

“You don’t mean what, man?—­always speak out.  Here, help me on with this coat.  Fethertonge and I are taking a ride up tomorrow as far as Ahadarra.”

“That’s a man I don’t like,” said the nephew.  “He’s too soft and too sweet, and speaks too low to be honest.”

“Honest, you blockhead!  Who says he’s honest?” replied his uncle.  “He’s as good a thing, however, an excellent man of the world that looks to the main point, and—­keeps up appearances.  Take care of yourselves;” and with these words, accompanied with a shrewd, knavish nod that was peculiar to him, in giving which with expression he was a perfect adept, he left them.

When he was gone, the brother and his sister looked at each, other, and the latter said, “Can it be possible, Harry, that my uncle is serious in all he says on this subject?”

Her brother, who paid more regard to the principles of his sister than her uncle did, felt great reluctance in answering her in the affirmative, so much so, indeed, that he resolved to stretch a little for the sake of common decency.

“Not at all, Maria; no man relishes honesty more than he does.  He only speaks in this fashion because he thinks that honest men are scarce, and so they are.  But, by-the-way, talking about Hycy Burke, Maria, how do you like him?”

“I can’t say I admire him,” she replied, “but you know I have had very slight opportunities of forming any opinion.”

“From what you have seen of him, what do you think?”

“Let me see,” she replied, pausing; “why, that he’ll meet very few who will think so highly of him as he does of himself.”

“He thinks very highly of you, then.”

“How do you know that?” she asked somewhat quickly.

“Faith, Maria, from the best authority—­because he himself told me so.”

“So, then, I have had the honor of furnishing you with a topic of conversation?”