‘Yes, Sir, he’s a very pretty young, man, and very well dressed,’ said his lordship, with manifest dissatisfaction:  ’but I don’t like meeting him, you know.  ’Tis not his fault; but one can’t help thinking of—­of things! and I’d be glad his friends would advise him not to dress in velvets, you know—­particularly black velvets you can understand.  I could not help thinking, at the time, of a pall, somehow.  I’m not—­no—­not pleasant near him.  No—­I—­I can’t—­his face is so pale—­you don’t often, see so pale a face—­no—­it looks like a reflection from one that’s still paler—­you understand—­and in short, even in his perfumes there’s a taint of—­of—­you know—­a taint of blood, Sir.  Then there was a pause, during which he kept slapping his boot peevishly with his little riding-whip.  ‘One can’t, of course, but be kind,’ he recommenced.  ’I can’t do much—­I can’t make him acceptable, you know—­but I pity him, Dr. Walsingham, and I’ve tried to be kind to him, you know that; for ten years I had all the trouble, Sir, of a guardian without the authority of one.  Yes, of course we’re kind; but body o’ me!  Sir, he’d be better any where else than here, and without occupation, you know, quite idle, and so conspicuous.  I promise you there are more than I who think it.  And he has commenced fitting up that vile old house—­that vile house, Sir.  It is ready to tumble down—­upon my life they say so; Nutter says so, and Sturk—­Dr. Sturk, of the Artillery here—­an uncommon sensible man, you know, says so too.  ’Tis a vile house, and ready to tumble down, and you know the trouble I was put to by that corporation fellow—­a—­what’s his name—­about it; and he can’t let it—­people’s servants won’t stay in it, you know, the people tell such stories about it, I’m told; and what business has he here, you know?  It is all very fine for a week or so, but they’ll find him out, they will, Sir.  He may call himself Mervyn, or Fitzgerald, or Thompson, Sir, or any other name, but it won’t do, Sir.  No, Dr. Walsingham, it won’t do.  The people down in this little village here, Sir, are plaguy sharp—­they’re cunning; upon my life, I believe they are too hard for Nutter.’

In fact, Sturk had been urging on his lordship the purchase of this little property, which, for many reasons ought to be had a bargain, and adjoined Lord Castlemallard’s, and had talked him into viewing it quite as an object.  No wonder, then, he should look on Mervyn’s restorations and residence, in the light of an impertinence and an intrusion.

CHAPTER XIV.

RELATING HOW PUDDOCK PURGED O’FLAHERTY’S HEAD—­A CHAPTER WHICH, IT IS HOPED, NO GENTEEL PERSON WILL READ.