‘And that’s true, if the devil spoke it,’ cried Blake. ‘Desmond Macartney, ye’re a gentleman. Ye can carry a gentleman’s apology to a gentleman without demeaning yourself. Present my apologies to his lordship, and tell him that I’ll honour myself by presenting them personally when I hear that he’s got rid of his present company.’
‘’Tis Mr. Feagus, of Ballymote, that you’ve had the row with?’
‘Faith then, it is, and ye can tell him that if he has the spunk to stand up at twenty paces I’ll do sufficient violence to my feelings as a gentleman to honour him by lettin’ daylight into him.’
‘Nonsense, Mr. Blake,’ said Desmond. ‘Men don’t fight duels nowadays.’
‘No, by the saints!’ cried Blake; ‘they stab each other with inky pens, and suck each other dry with lawsuits, by the help of such parchmint-scrapin’ vermin as Jack Feagus. ’Tis a dirty world we live in, Desmond, my boy, but sure that’s all the more reason that the few decent men should stick together. I’m goin’ on to Widdy Daly’s shebeen, and if ye’re inclined for a drink at the stone cow, I’ll be proud of your company.’
‘Later, perhaps,’ said Desmond. ‘I’ve Lady Dulcie to take care of now, you see.’
‘Ah!’ said Blake, with a vinous smile at the girl, ‘’tis the best end of the stick that ye’ve got hold of, Desmond Macartney. Whisky’s a good familiar craythur, but ’tis a mighty poor substitute for the colleens.
Good luck to ye. Lady Dulcie, your obedient servant.’
He swaggered off, his recent anger quite forgotten, and a moment later the quiet evening air rang tunably with a scrap of Irish song:
‘And thin he’d reply, with a wink of his eye,