It was about noon when the doctor left him, and during those six long solitary hours no one feeling of remorse had entered his breast.  He had often doubted, hesitated as to the practicability of his present plan, but not once had he made the faintest effort to overcome the wish to have the deed done.  There was not one moment in which he would not most willingly have had his sister’s blood upon his hands, upon his brain, upon his soul; could he have willed and accomplished her death, without making himself liable to the penalties of the law.

At length Doctor Colligan came, and Barry made a great effort to appear unconcerned and in good humour.

“And how is she now, doctor?” he said, as they sat down to table.

“Is it Anty?—­why, you know I didn’t mean to see her since I was here this morning, till nine o’clock.”

“Oh, true; so you were saying.  I forgot.  Well, will you take a glass of wine?”—­and Barry filled his own glass quite full.

He drank his wine at dinner like a glutton, who had only a short time allowed him, and wished during that time to swallow as much as possible; and he tried to hurry his companion in the same manner.  But the doctor didn’t choose to have wine forced down his throat; he wished to enjoy himself, and remonstrated against Barry’s violent hospitality.

At last, dinner was over; the things were taken away, they both drew their chairs over the fire, and began the business of the evening—­the making and consumption of punch.  Barry had determined to begin upon the subject which lay so near his heart, at eight o’clock.  He had thought it better to fix an exact hour, and had calculated that the whole matter might be completed before Colligan went over to the inn.  He kept continually looking at his watch, and gulping down his drink, and thinking over and over again how he would begin the conversation.

“You’re very comfortable here, Lynch,” said the doctor, stretching his long legs before the fire, and putting his dirty boots upon the fender.

“Yes, indeed,” said Barry, not knowing what the other was saying.

“All you want’s a wife, and you’d have as warm a house as there is in Galway.  You’ll be marrying soon, I suppose?”

“Well, I wouldn’t wonder if I did.  You don’t take your punch; there’s brandy there, if you like it better than whiskey.”

“This is very good, thank you—­couldn’t be better.  You haven’t much land in your own hands, have you?”

“Why, no—­I don’t think I have.  What’s that you’re saying?—­land?—­No, not much:  if there’s a thing I hate, it’s farming.”

“Well, upon my word you’re wrong.  I don’t see what else a gentleman has to do in the country.  I wish to goodness I could give up the gallipots [41] and farm a few acres of my own land.  There’s nothing I wish so much as to get a bit of land:  indeed, I’ve been looking out for it, but it’s so difficult to get.”