“I have never lectured any one; least of all would it occur to me to lecture you,” said Haire, with much dignity. “In all our intercourse I have never forgotten the difference between us,—I mean intellectually; for I hope, as to birth and condition, there is no inequality.”
Though he spoke this slowly and impressively, the Chief Baron heard nothing of it. He was so overwhelmed by the strong passions of his own mind that he could not attend to another. “I shall soon be called incorrigible as well as incompetent,” uttered he, “if the wise counsels of my ablest friends are powerless to admonish me.”
“I must be moving,” said Haire, rising and taking his hat. “I promised to dine with Beattie at the Rock.”
“Say nothing of what has taken place here to-day; or if you mention me at all, say you found me in my usual health.” Haire nodded.
“My usual health and spirits,” continued the Chief. “I was going to say temper, but it would seem an epigram. Tell Beattie to look in here as he goes home; there 's one of the children slightly ailing. And so, Haire,” cried he, suddenly, in a louder voice, “you would insinuate that my power of judgment is impaired, and that neither in the case of my granddaughter nor in that larger field of opinion—the state of Ireland—am I displaying that wisdom or that acuteness on which it was one time the habit to compliment me.”
“You may be quite right. I won't presume to say you 're not. I only declare that I don't agree with you.”
“In either case?”
“No; not in either case.”
“I think I shall ride to-day,” said the Chief; for they had now reached the hall-door, and were looking out over the grassy lawn and the swelling woods that enclosed it. “You lose much, Haire, in not being a horseman. What would my critics say if they saw me following the hounds, eh?”
“I 'll be shot if it would surprise me to see it,” muttered Haire to himself. “Good-bye.”