“Peter is no good in this case, my dear; send him home at once. That man will 'blaze' for the asking.” And with a nod of immense significance she finally withdrew.
CHAPTER XX. HOW ENRIQUE'S LETTER WAS LOST AND FOUND.
“Arcades ambo!”
Blackguards both!
In the window of a very pretty cottage-room overlooking the Liffey, and that romantic drive so well known to Dub-liners as the “low road” to Lucan, sat Tom Linton. He was enjoying a cigar and a glass of weak negus, as a man may enjoy such luxuries seated in the easiest of chairs, looking out upon one of the sweetest of woodland landscapes, and feeling the while that the whole was “his own.” If conscientious scruples had been any part of that gentleman's life philosophy, he might have suffered some misgivings, seeing that the cottage itself, its furniture, the plate, the very horses in the stable and the grooms about it, had been won at the hazard-table, and from one whose beggary ended in suicide. But Linton did not dwell on such things, and if they did for an instant cross his mind, he dismissed them at once with a contemptuous pity for the man who could not build up a fortune by the arts with which he had lost one. He had not begun the world himself with much principle, and all his experiences went to prove that even less would suffice, and that for the purposes of the station he occupied, and the society he frequented, it was only necessary that he should not transgress in his dealings with men of a certain rank and condition; so that while every transaction with people of class and fashion should be strictly on “the square,” he was at perfect liberty to practise any number of sharp things with all beneath them. It was the old axiom of knight-errantry adapted to our own century, which made every weapon fair used against the plebeian!
From a pleasant revery over some late successes and some future ones in anticipation, he was aroused by a gentle tap at the door.
“Come in,” said he; “I think I guess who it is,—Phillis, eh?”
“Yes, sir, you're quite correct,” said that individual, advancing from the misty twilight of the room, which was only partly lighted by a single alabaster lamp. “I thought I'd find you at home, sir, and I knew this letter might interest you. He dropped it when going up the stairs at Kennyfeck's, and could scarcely have read it through.”
“Sit down, George—sit down, man—what will you take? I see you 've had a fast drive; if that was your car I heard on the road, your pace was tremendous. What shall it be—claret—sherry—brandy-and-water?”
“If you please, sir, sherry. I have lost all palate for Bordeaux since I came to Mr. Cashel. We get abominable wine from Cullan.”