The pathos with which Lord Cashel terminated his speech—­and it was one the thrilling effect of which he intended to be overwhelming—­almost restored Lord Kilcullen to his accustomed effrontery.

“My lord,” he said, “I did not consider myself of sufficient importance to have delayed your dinner ten minutes.”

“I have always endeavoured, Kilcullen, to show the same respect to you in my house, which my father showed to me in his; but you do not allow me the opportunity.  But let that pass; we have more important things to speak of.  When last we were here together why did you not tell me the whole truth?”

“What truth, my lord?”

“About your debts, Kilcullen:  why did you conceal from me their full amount?  Why, at any rate, did you take pains to make me think them so much less than they really are?”

“Conceal, my lord?—­that is hardly fair, considering that I told you expressly I could not give you any idea what was the amount I owed.  I concealed nothing; if you deceived yourself, the fault was not mine.”

“You could not but have known that the claims against you were much larger than I supposed them to be—­double, I suppose.  Good heaven!—­why in ten years more, at this rate, you would more than consume the fee simple of the whole property!  What can I say to you, Kilcullen, to make you look on your own conduct in the proper light?”

“I think you have said enough for the purpose; you have told me to marry, and I have consented to do so.”

“Do you think, Kilcullen, you have spent the last eight years in a way which it can please a father to contemplate?  Do you think I can look back on your conduct with satisfaction or content?  And yet you have no regret to express for the past—­no promises to make for the future.  I fear it is all in vain.  I fear that what I am doing what I am striving to do, is now all in vain.  I fear it is hopeless to attempt to recall you from the horrid, reckless, wicked mode of life you have adopted.”  The sombre mantle of expostulatory eloquence had now descended on the earl, and he continued, turning full upon his victim, and raising and lowering his voice with monotonous propriety.—­“I fear it is to no good purpose that I am subjecting your mother and myself to privation, restraint, and inconvenience; that I am straining every nerve to place you again in a position of respectability, a position suitable to my fortune and your own rank.  I am endeavouring to retrieve the desperate extravagance—­the—­I must say—­though I do not wish to hurt your feelings, yet I must say, disgraceful ruin of your past career.  And how do you help me? what regret do you show? what promises of amendment do you afford?  You drive up to my hall-door at midnight with your boon companion; you disturb the whole household at most unseasonable hours, and subject my family to the same disreputable irregularity in which you have yourself so long indulged.  Can such doings, Kilcullen, give me any hopes for the future?  Can—­”