“They told me at Cobham that there was no getting you to 'go out;' that, like a regular old soldier, you liked your own chimney-corner, and could not be tempted away from it.”
“They didn't try very hard, anyhow,” said he, harshly. “I'll be nineteen years here if I live till November, and I think I got two invitations, and one of them to a 'dancing tea,' whatever that is; so that you may observe they did n't push the temptation as far as St. Anthony's!”
Stapylton joined in the laugh with which M'Cormick welcomed his own drollery.
“Your doctor,” resumed he, “is, I presume, the father of the pretty girl who rides so cleverly?”
“So they tell me. I never saw her mounted but once, and she smashed a melon-frame for me, and not so much as 'I ask your pardon!' afterwards.”
“And Barrington,” resumed Stapylton, “is the ruined gentleman I have heard of, who has turned innkeeper. An extravagant son, I believe, finished him?”
“His own taste for law cost him just as much,” muttered M'Cormick. “He had a trunk full of old title-deeds and bonds and settlements, and he was always poring over them, discovering, by the way, flaws in this and omissions in that, and then he 'd draw up a case for counsel, and get consultations on it, and before you could turn round, there he was, trying to break a will or get out of a covenant, with a special jury and the strongest Bar in Ireland. That's what ruined him.”
“I gather from what you tell me that he is a bold, determined, and perhaps a vindictive man. Am I right?”
“You are not; he's an easy-tempered fellow, and careless, like every one of his name and race. If you said he hadn't a wise head on his shoulders, you 'd be nearer the mark. Look what he 's going to do now!” cried he, warming with his theme: “he 's going to give up the inn—”
“Give it up! And why?”