At length one evening Donal knocked at the door of Forgue’s room, and went in. He was seated in an easy chair before a blazing fire, looking comfortable, and showing in his pale face no sign of a disturbed conscience.
“My lord,” said Donal, “you will hardly be surprised to find I have something to talk to you about!”
His lordship was so much surprised that he made him no answer—only looked in his face. Donal went on:—
“I want to speak to you about Eppy Comin,” he said.
Forgue’s face flamed up. The devil of pride, and the devil of fear, and the devil of shame, all rushed to the outworks to defend the worthless self. But his temper did not at once break bounds.
“Allow me to remind you, Mr. Grant,” he said, “that, although I have availed myself of your help, I am not your pupil, and you have no authority over me.”
“The reminder is unnecessary, my lord,” answered Donal. “I am not your tutor, but I am the friend of the Comins, and therefore of Eppy.”
His lordship drew himself up yet more erect in his chair, and a sneer came over his handsome countenance. But Donal did not wait for him to speak.
“Don’t imagine me, my lord,” he said, “presuming on the fact that I had the good fortune to carry you home: that I should have done for the stable-boy in similar plight. But as I interfered for you then, I have to interfere for Eppie now.”
“Damn your insolence! Do you think because you are going to be a parson, you may make a congregation of me!”