“Of course he has not. Neither he nor I ever saw it before,” said Vyner.
“Maybe you’ll be more familiar with it yet; maybe the time isn’t far off when you’ll see it waving over the towers of Dublin Castle!”
“I’m not aware that there are any towers for it to wave over,” said Grenfell, mockingly.
“I’ll tell you what there are! There are hills and mountains, that our fathers had as their own; there are plains and valleys, that supported a race braver and better than the crafty Saxons that overcame them; there are holy churches, where our faith was taught before we ever heard of Harry the Eighth and his ten wives!”
“You are giving him more than the Church did,” said Grenfell.
“I don’t care whether they were ten or ten thousand. He is your St. Peter, and you can’t deny him!”
“I wish I could deny that I don’t like this conversation,” said Vyner. “My friend and I never came here to discuss questions of politics or polemics. And now about dinner. Could you let us have it at three o’clock; it is just eleven now?”
“Yes, it will be ready by three,” said O’Rorke, gravely.
“The place is clean enough inside,” whispered Grenfell, as he came from within, “but miserably poor. The fellow seems to have expended all his spare cash in rebellious pictures and disloyal engravings.”
“He is an insupportable bore,” muttered Vyner; “but let us avoid discussion with him, and keep him at a distance.”