“Bank of Ireland notes will do.”
Dunn lifted his eyes from the paper, and then, raising his hat, saluted Mr. Barnard.
“I trust you left Mrs. Barnard well?” said he, in a calm voice.
“Yes, thank you—well—quite well,” said Barnard, in some confusion.
“Will you remember to tell her that she shall have the acorns of the Italian pines next week? I have heard of their arrival at the Custom-house.”
While Barnard muttered a very confused expression of thanks, the old Earl looked from one to the other of the speakers in a sort of bewilderment. Where was the angry indignation he had looked for from Dunn,—where the haughty denunciation of a black ingratitude?
“Why, Dunn, I say,” whispered he, “isn't this Barnard the fellow you spoke of,—the man you returned to Parliament t' other day?”
“The same, my Lord,” replied Dunn, in a low, cautious voice. “He is here exacting a right,—a just right,—and no more. It is not now, nor in this place, that I would remind him how ungraciously he has treated me. This day is his. Mine will come yet.”
Before Lord Glengariff could well recover from the astonishment of this cold and calculating patience, Mr. Hankes pushed his way through the crowd, with an open letter in his hand.
It was a telegram just received, with an account of an attack made by the mob on Mr. Dunn's house in Dublin. Like all such communications, the tidings were vague and unsatisfactory: “A terrific attack by mob on No. 18. Windows smashed, and front door broken, but not forced. Police repulsed; military sent for.”