“Till after Easter, my lord!  I should be in the Hue and Cry before that time, if I was so long absent from my accustomed haunts.  Besides I should only put out your own arrangements, or rather, those of Lady Cashel.  There would probably be no room for me in the family coach.”.

“The family coach won’t go, Lord Kilcullen.  I am sorry to say, that the state of my affairs at present renders it advisable that the family should remain at Grey Abbey this season.  I shall attend my parliamentary duties alone.”

This was intended as a hit the first at the prodigal son, but Kilcullen was too crafty to allow it to tell.  He merely bowed his head, and opened his eyes, to betoken his surprise at such a decision, and remained quiet.

“Indeed,” continued Lord Cashel, “I did not even intend to have gone myself, but the unexpected death of Harry Wyndham renders it necessary.  I must put Fanny’s affairs in a right train.  Poor Harry!—­did you see much of him during his illness?”

“Why, no—­I can’t say I did.  I’m not a very good hand at doctoring or nursing.  I saw him once since he got his commission, glittering with his gold lace like a new weather-cock on a Town Hall.  He hadn’t time to polish the shine off.”

“His death will make a great difference, as far as Fanny is concerned—­eh?”

“Indeed it will:  her fortune now is considerable;—­a deuced pretty thing, remembering that it’s all ready money, and that she can touch it the moment she’s of age.  She’s entirely off with Ballindine, isn’t she?”

“Oh, entirely,” said the earl, with considerable self-complacency; “that affair is entirely over.”

“I’ve stated so everywhere publicly; but I dare say, she’ll give him her money, nevertheless.  She’s not the girl to give over a man, if she’s really fond of him.”

“But, my dear Kilcullen, she has authorised me to give him a final answer, and I have done so.  After that, you know, it would be quite impossible for her to—­to—­”

“You’ll see;—­she’ll marry Lord Ballindine.  Had Harry lived, it might have been different; but now she’s got all her brother’s money, she’ll think it a point of honour to marry her poor lover.  Besides, her staying this year in the country will be in his favour:  she’ll see no one here—­and she’ll want something to think of.  I understand he has altogether thrown himself into Blake’s hands—­the keenest fellow in Ireland, with as much mercy as a foxhound.  He’s a positive fool, is Ballindine.”

“I’m afraid he is—­I’m afraid he is.  And you may be sure I’m too fond of Fanny—­that is, I have too much regard for the trust reposed in me, to allow her to throw herself away upon him.”

“That’s all very well; but what can you do?”

“Why, not allow him to see her; and I’ve another plan in my head for her.”

“Ah!—­but the thing is to put the plan into her head.  I’d be sorry to hear of a fine girl like Fanny Wyndham breaking her heart in a half-ruined barrack in Connaught, without money to pay a schoolmaster to teach her children to spell.  But I’ve too many troubles of my own to think of just at present, to care much about hers;” and the son and heir got up, and stood with his back to the fire, and put his arms under his coat-laps.  “Upon my soul, my lord, I never was so hard up in my life!”