Dr. Toole bowed low, and grinned with real satisfaction, reminded him of their interview at the ‘Phoenix,’ and made by way of apology for his appearance at the ‘Tiled House,’ a light and kind allusion to poor old Tim, of whose toothache he spoke affectionately, and with water in his eyes—­for he half believed for the moment what he was saying—­declared how he remembered him when he did not come up to Tim’s knee-buckle, and would walk that far any day, and a bit further too, he hoped, to relieve the poor old boy in a less matter.  And finding that Mr. Mervyn was going toward Chapelizod, he begged him not to delay on his account, and accompanied him down the Ballyfermot road, entertaining him by the way with an inexhaustible affluence of Chapelizod anecdote and scandal, at which the young man stared a good deal, and sometimes even appeared impatient:  but the doctor did not perceive it, and rattled on; and told him moreover, everything about himself and his belongings with a minute and voluble frankness, intended to shame the suspicious reserve of the stranger.  But nothing came; and being by this time grown bolder, he began a more direct assault, and told him, with a proper scorn of the village curiosity, all the theories which the Chapelizod gossips had spun about him.

’And they say, among other things, that you’re not—­a—­in fact—­there’s a mystery—­a something—­about your birth, you know,’ said Toole, in a tone implying pity and contempt for his idle townsfolk.

‘They lie, then!’ cried the young man, stopping short, more fiercely than was pleasant, and fixing his great lurid eyes upon the cunning face of the doctor; and, after a pause, ’Why can’t they let me and my concerns alone, Sir?’

‘But there’s no use in saying so, I can tell you,’ exclaimed little Toole, recovering his feet in an instant.  ’Why, I suppose there isn’t so tattling, prying, lying, scandalous a little colony of Christians on earth; eyes, ears, and mouths all open, Sir; heads busy, tongues wagging; lots of old maids, by Jove; ladies’ women, and gentlemen’s gentlemen, and drawers and footmen; club talk, Sir, and mess-table talk, and talk on band days, talk over cards, talk at home, Sir—­talk in the streets—­talk—­talk; by Jupiter Tonans! ’tis enough to bother one’s ears, and make a man envy Robinson Crusoe!’

‘So I do, Sir, if we were rid of his parrot,’ answered Mervyn:  and with a dry ’I wish you a good-morning, doctor—­doctor—­a—­Sir’—­turned sharply from him up the Palmerstown-road.

‘Going to Belmont,’ murmured little Toole, with his face a little redder than usual, and stopping in an undignified way for a moment at the corner to look after him.  ’He’s close—­plaguy close; and Miss Rebecca Chattesworth knows nothing about him neither—­I wander does she though—­and doesn’t seem to care even.  He’s not there for nothing though. Some one makes him welcome, depend on’t,’ and he winked to himself.  ’A plaguy high stomach, too, by