It is impossible to convey a just impression of the offensive tone and emphasis with which this impertinence was uttered. The quick-witted Irishman saw through the design in an instant. "It is from a Scotch author," said he, before Ida could reply, "and the rhyme runs after this fashion-- 'Feckless, fairlie, farcically fou!'" and not deigning a second glance at the questioner, he continued his account of a visit he had paid to Moore. The object of this merciless retort stood for a second, in doubt as to its meaning, and then walked off, still in incertitude. Ida's laugh, while it might have been in response to Mr. Dermott's story assured Josephine that her end was unaccomplished, before her messenger had delivered his lame return. "She understood me, and it cut pretty deeply, but that puppy of a paddy answered for her. He repeated the next line, too, 'from a Scotch author,' he said, but I believe he made it up." "What was it?" asked Josephine. "'Fairly, farcically fou,' or something like that. If I were sure that last word meant fool, I would knock him down. Do you understand Scotch?" "No," replied Josephine, vexed, but afraid to excite him further. "He is beneath the notice of a gentleman; we can let him alone." But Ida's share in this was not to be overlooked. Josephine appeared as usual at breakfast: talkative to her father, and taciturn to her female companion. At length she inquired, meaningly, "by the way, Ida, when does your travelled Hibernian 'lave this counthry?'" "If you speak of Mr. Dermott, I do not know." "Is it not remarkable," said Josephine to her parent, "that polish and purify as you may, you cannot cure an Irishman of vulgarity? Irish he is, and Irish he will remain to the end of the chapter." "Dermott behaves very decently, does he not? His letters of recommendation--introduction, I would say, describe him as a pattern gentleman." Josephine lifted her brows. "It is a misfortune to be fastidious; my education has rendered me so. I cannot tolerate slang or abuse, especially when directed at a superior in politeness, if not in assurance." "What now?" demanded Mr. Read, impatiently; and Ida, unable to hear more in silence, started up from the table. "Wait, if you please," said Josephine, with that metallic glitter of her grey eyes. "I wish you to repeat your friend's reply to Mr. Pemberton, when he was the bearer of a civil message from _me_." "I heard no message of that description," retorted Ida, unmoved. "He did not repeat a line of poetry, and ask the author's name, I presume?" "He did." "And you furnished the required information?" "I did not." "Mr. Dermott did, then. What was his answer?" "I do not choose to tell. _I_ am not in the habit of playing spy and informer." "Then I shall repeat it. _I_ am not in the habit of winking at impudence or transgressions of the most common laws of society. What do you say, sir, of a man who, in the presence of ladies, calls another a 'farcical fool?'"