"Oh, nothing. She's a different kind from this Irish lady. For what did that girl do, after her brother had seen her and got the idea, than pack up and come to London with him. And he showed her around so well, and her fine looks made such an impression, that within three months he had her married to a lord's son--the heir to Lord Ilverton's estates and title. And now she's a made woman, and he's a made man, and what do you think of that for a lucky brother and a clever sister? And yet, compared with Fanny--" "Do you mean to say," interrupted Philip, in a low voice, "that you have ever thought of Fanny as a partner in such a plan?" "Little use to think of her," replied Ned, contemptuously. "She hasn't the spirit. I'm afraid there ain't many sisters like Mullaney's. Poor Fan wouldn't even listen--" "Did you dare propose it to her?" said Phil. My own feelings were too strong for speech. "Dare!" repeated Ned. "Why not? 'Twould have made her fortune--" "Upon my word," put in Mr. Cornelius, no longer able to contain his opinions, "I never heard of such rascality!" Something in the pedagogue's tone, I suppose, or in Ned's stage of tipsiness at the moment, gave the speech an inflammatory effect. Ned stared a moment at the speaker, in amazement. Then he said, with aroused insolence: "What's this, Mr. Parson? What have _you_ to say here? My sister is _my_ sister, let me tell you--" "If she knew you as well as I do now," retorted Cornelius, quietly, "she wouldn't boast of the relationship." "What the devil!" cried Ned, in an elevated voice, thus drawing the attention of the four or five other people in the room. "Who is this, talks of relationships? You cursed parson-pedagogue--!" "Be quiet, Ned," warned Philip. "Everybody hears you." "I don't care," replied Ned, rising, and again addressing Cornelius. "Does anybody boast of relationships to you, you tow-headed bumpkin? Do you think you can call me to account, as you can the scum you preach to on the wharves? I'll teach you!" Whereat, Cornelius being opposite him, Ned violently pushed forward the table so as to carry the tutor over backward in his chair. His head and back struck the floor heavily, and he lay supine beneath the upset table. An excited crowd instantly surrounded our group. Philip and I immediately removed the table, and helped Cornelius to his feet. The pedagogue's face was afire; his fists were clenched; his chest swelled; and one could judge from his wrists what sturdy arms his sleeves encased. As he advanced upon Ned, he was all at once become so formidable a figure that no one thought to interpose. Ned himself, appalled at the approaching embodiment of anger and strength, retreated a foot or two from the expected blow. Everybody looked to see him stretched flat in a moment; when Cornelius suddenly stopped, relaxed his muscles, unclosed his fists, and said to his insulter, in a quiet but virile voice quite different from that of his usual speech: