“Yes, my Lord, such was he,—or such, at least, was he believed to be, till yesterday evening. You know it's the last glass of wine always makes a man tipsy.”
“And who is ruined, Heffernan,—any of our friends?”
“As yet there's no saying. Drogheda will lose something considerable, I believe; but at the banks the opinion is that Darcy will be the heaviest loser of any.”
“The Knight?”
“Yes, the Knight of Gwynne.”
“I am sincerely sorry to hear it,” said Lord Castlereagh, with an energy of tone he had not displayed before; “if I had met half-a-dozen such men as he is, I should have had some scruples—” He paused, and at the instant caught sight of a very peculiar smile on Heffernan's features; then, suddenly changing the topic, he said, “What of Nickolls,—is he shot?”
“No, my Lord, there was no meeting. Bagenal Daly, so goes the story, proposed going over to the Isle of Man in a row-boat.”
“What, last night!” said the Secretary, laughing.
“Yes, when it was blowing the roof off the Custom House; he offered him his choice of weapons, from a blunderbuss to a harpoon, and his own distance, over a handkerchief, or fifty yards with a rifle.”
“And was Nickolls deaf to all such seductions?”