“Oh! they said so, did they?  Droll dogs—­always quizzing—­I wonder you did not perceive the hoax—­eh—­very good, was it not?” This I poured out in short broken sentences, blushing like scarlet, and fidgeting like a school girl with downright nervousness.

“A hoax! devilish well done too,”—­said Tom, “for old Carden believed the whole story, and told me that he had obtained a six months’ leave for you to make your ‘com.’ and, moreover, said that he had got a letter from the nobleman, Lord _____ confound his name.”

“Lord Grey, is it?” said I, with a sly look at Tom.

“No, my dear friend,” said he drily, “it was not Lord Grey—­but to continue—­he had got a letter from him, dated from Paris, stating his surprise that you had never joined them there, according to promise, and that they knew your cousin Guy, and a great deal of other matter I can’t remember—­so what does all this mean?  Did you hoax the noble Lord as well as the Horse Guards, Harry?”

This was indeed a piece of news for me; I stammered out some ridiculous explanation, and promised a fuller detail.  Could it be that I had done the Callonbys injustice, and that they never intended to break off my attention to Lady Jane—­that she was still faithful, and that of all concerned I alone had been to blame.  Oh! how I hoped this might be the case; heavily as my conscience might accuse, I longed ardently to forgive and deal mercifully with myself.  Tom continued to talk about indifferent matters, as these thoughts flitted through my mind; perceiving at last that I did not attend, he stopped suddenly and said—­

“Harry, I see clearly that something has gone wrong, and perhaps I can make a guess at the mode too:  but however, you can do nothing about it now; come and dine with me to-day, and we’ll discuss the affair together after dinner; or if you prefer a ‘distraction,’ as we used to say in Dunkerque, why then I’ll arrange something fashionable for your evening’s amusement.  Come, what say you to hearing Father Keogh preach, or would you like a supper at the Carlingford, or perhaps you prefer a soiree chez Miladi; for all of these Dublin affords—­all three good in their way, and very intellectual.”

“Well, Tom, I’m yours; but I should prefer your dining with me; I am at Bilton’s; we’ll have our cutlet quite alone, and—­”

“And be heartily sick of each other, you were going to add.  No, no, Harry; you must dine with me; I have some remarkably nice people to present you to--six is the hour--sharp six--number ___ Molesworth-street, Mrs. Clanfrizzle’s—­easily find it—­large fanlight over the door—­huge lamp in the hall, and a strong odour of mutton broth for thirty yards on each side of the premises—­and as good luck would have it, I see old Daly the counsellor, as they call him, he’s the very man to get to meet you, you always liked a character, eh!”

Saying this, O’Flaherty disengaged himself from my arm, and hurried across the street towards a portly middle-aged looking gentleman, with the reddest face I ever beheld.  After a brief but very animated colloquy, Tom returned, and informed that that all was right; he had secured Daly.