‘Neither one nor the other,’ broke in Kearney; ‘as fine a boy and as thorough a gentleman as there is in Ireland.’
‘And a bit of a Fenian, too,’ slowly interposed Flood.
‘Not that I know; I’m not sure that he follows the distinctions of party here; he is little acquainted with Ireland.’
‘Ho, ho! a Yankee sympathiser?’
‘Not even that; an Austrian soldier, a young lieutenant of lancers over here for his leave.’
‘And why couldn’t he shoot, or course, or kiss the girls, or play at football, and not be burning his fingers with the new land-laws? There’s plenty of ways to amuse yourself in Ireland, without throwing a man out of window; eh, Adams?’
And Adams bowed his assent, but did not utter a word.
‘You are not going to open more wine?’ remonstrated Kearney eagerly.
‘It’s done. Smell that, Mr. Kearney,’ cried Flood, as he held out a fresh-drawn cork at the end of the screw. ‘Talk to me of clove-pinks and violets and carnations after that? I don’t know whether you have any prayers in your church against being led into temptation.’
‘Haven’t we!’ sighed the other.