“Patsie, I’ll thank ye to behave yerself! You don’t know what yer saying.” What was the use, she said to herself, in argufying with a man who was not sober? Patsie, when in such a state, was more or less mad. Had he forgotten, that she was not Mary Foley, now? They were an uncommonly good-looking couple in Sir Harry’s opinion, this Irishman and his sweetheart--the one, so fair, vivacious, and in a way brilliant, with wonderful hair; the other, dark as a Spaniard, with equally wonderful eyes, undeniably well-favoured, and undeniably jealous. So this was the fellow she had been thinking of, and expecting. The gate was their trysting place, and without permission Sir Harry took a joint photograph of the couple. “Ye’d no call to do that!” cried Pat. “It’s a shame to steal a person’s face unknownst.” “Do you think so?” rejoined Sir Harry airily. “I’ve not the slightest objection to any one stealing mine.” “No, for yer quite safe! No one would be at the trouble of taking off your picture; it’s ugly enough to break the plate!” “I say, my good fellow,” he cried, colouring up, “don’t presume on my good-nature. Don’t go too far!” “Go back to your motor that’s lying up the road there on its belly, and take a picture of that!” scoffed the Irishman. “Yes, I suppose”--ignoring this insult, and turning to his companion--“that we ought to be moving.” Captain Deverell had made himself comfortable on the wall, and was smoking a pipe. “Before I go, won’t you tell me your name?” said Sir Harry, appealing to Mary. “You are better-looking, and better fun, than half the girls in England.” “Thank you kindly, sir, for your good opinion”--and she dropped a curtsey. “My name is--a secret.” “I see”--looking significantly at her; “you are soon going to change it.” “I am--so.” “May I be permitted to kiss your pretty little hand?” “You may, if you please,” and she held it out across the gate. Sir Harry took it in his, gazed at it in surprise, and pressed his lips on it. Then he turned it about and squeezed the sovereign into its small, rosy palm. “Throw away his dirty money, Mary!” cried Pat. “Tell him yer able to buy and sell his likes! Throw it in his face, I tell ye!” he shouted passionately, “do ye hear me!” These men belonged to the very class who would now come between him and Mary; he hated them both furiously. “I tell you what?” said Sir Harry, who had lost his easily mislaid temper, pushing back the gate as he spoke, “I see that I will have to give you a thrashing; you are spoiling for it, as they say here”--and he seized Pat roughly by the coat. Pat, nothing loth, tore it out of his hand, flung it on the grass, squared himself, and said: “Come on, me little man! and I’ll soon knock the head off ye.”