“Is this your brother?” she inquired--“the stout young man with the gun coming in at the gate.” “Yes, my brother Barker--he has been out after hares.” “Hullo, Ulick!” he began, as he came within earshot. “I say, who is your lady friend?” “Mrs. Aron, a friend of Mrs. Grogan in America--our aunt, you know.” “No, I don’t know her, thank goodness, and don’t want to. A lady who disgraced the family, and made a scandal and went off with a blackguard postman!” “He was not a blackguard, sir,” she broke in indignantly, “and he was the son of a respectable farmer. By all accounts, she was kept very strict, and had no young society of her own class.” “She doesn’t seem to be keeping much society _now_, if you are a specimen of her acquaintances,” scoffed Barky, with deliberate insolence, as he stared at her weather-beaten waterproof and old-fashioned bonnet. “_I_ was always against my mother making it up with her, and you may tell her that if you like--from me. As to her money, I’ll believe it when I see it! America is a queer sort of place!” “Is it? And yet, by all accounts, some one sent off a girl there last month who was a _real_ disgrace to her family.” Barky became crimson as she looked him steadily in the face, and added, “I see you are your mother’s own son!” “Well, so I have been given to understand.” “And she has a right to be proud of you!” “I am glad you think so”; and Mr. Barker Doran turned on his heel and stalked away, carrying with him all the eclat which is supposed to be conferred by the last word. CHAPTER VI The conversation between his brother and Mrs. Aron was not overheard by Ulick. As the nervous young mare was cold and impatient, he had hastily mounted, and ridden away through the demesne. After an hour’s exercise he returned home, hurried up to his room, hunted out his money, and, taking what was called “the dairy pony,” galloped off to “The Arms.” He told himself that he could just do it, and be back in time for dinner at eight o’clock, for Mrs. Doran kept fashionable hours. Fashionable hours cost nothing; a chop at six is the same price as a chop two hours later. When Ulick arrived at “The Arms,” a comfortable family hotel, the resort of tourists in search of fishing and scenery--the fishing a fiction, the scenery a delightful fact--he went to the bar and asked for Mrs. Aron. The landlady replied in person. “Sure she is upstairs, after packing, and a bit tired, sir. If you will come along with me I will let her know”; and Mrs. Hogan conducted him into the best sitting-room. In a few minutes Mrs. Aron entered, still wearing her bonnet and cloak. “So you have brought it, I suppose?” she began abruptly. “Yes. I’m awfully sorry: it’s only nine pounds after all.” “Oh, I’ll make it do, and I am ever so much obliged to you; you’ll be no loser by me,” she added with emphasis.