“What’s that?”
“Did it when I was not there to see the fun. Why, it’s glorious.”
“I shall never forgive myself.”
“Then I’ll forgive you. Why, you soft-hearted old parson, you know you cannot touch him and his rascal of a brother with words, and you know that they are the curses of the neighbourhood.”
“No reason for me to give way to temper, and degrade myself.”
“Degrade your grandmother, sir! You’ve treated them as the Irish priests treat their flocks. Metaphorically given Tom Candlish the stick. It was your duty, sir, and there’s an end of it.”
“No; I’m afraid there’s not an end to it. He threatens to go to May.”
“Bah!”
“And to lay my conduct before the bishop.”
“And goes to bed and pretends his horse threw him. Get out, you old humbug; you’ll never hear another word.”