“Yes, yes, yes, very true; when you’re of age, Colambre, we’ll talk of it; but nothing can be done till then. We shall get on, we shall get through, very well, till then, with Terry’s assistance; and I must beg you will not say a word more against Terry--I can’t bear it--I can’t bear it--I can’t do without him. Pray don’t detain me--I can say no more--except,” added he, returning to his usual concluding sentence, “that there need, at all events, be none of this, if people would but live upon their own estates, and kill their own mutton.” He stole out of the room, glad to escape, however shabbily, from present explanation and present pain. There are persons without resource, who, in difficulties, return always to the same point, and usually to the same words. While Lord Colambre was walking up and down the room, much vexed and disappointed at finding that he could make no impression on his father’s mind, nor obtain his confidence, Lady Clonbrony’s woman, Mrs. Petito, knocked at the door, with a message from her lady, to beg, if Lord Colambre was _by himself_, he would go to her dressing-room, as she wished to have a conference with him. He obeyed her summons. “Sit down, my dear Colambre--” And she began precisely with her old sentence--“With the fortune I brought your father, and with my lord’s estate, I _cawnt_ understand the meaning of all these pecuniary difficulties; and all that strange creature Sir Terence says is algebra to me, who speak English. And I am particularly sorry he was let in this morning--but he’s such a brute that he does not think any thing of forcing one’s door, and he tells my footman he does not mind _not at home_ a pinch of snuff. Now what can you do with a man who could say that sort of thing, you know?--the world’s at an end.” “I wish my father had nothing to do with him, ma’am, as much as you can wish it,” said Lord Colambre; “but I have said all that a son can say, and without effect.”