Connal, perceiving he had overshot himself, made protestations of his innocence of the remotest intention of glancing at, or reflecting upon, or imagining any thing but what was perfectly angelic and proper in Miss Dora--Miss O’Shane. “Then that was all as it should be,” Mr. O’Shane said, “so far: but another point he would not concede to mortal man, was he fifty times his son-in-law promised, that was, his own right to have who he pleased and _willed_ to have, at his own castle, his inmate and his intimate.” “No doubt--to be sure,” Connal said: “he did not mean--he only meant--he could not mean--in short, he meant nothing at all, only just to put Mr. O’Shane on his guard--that was all he meant.” “Phoo!” said Cornelius O’Shane; but checking the expression of his contempt for the man, he made an abrupt transition to Connal’s horse, which had just come to the door. “That’s a handsome horse! certainly you are well mounted, Mr. Connal.” O’Shane’s elision of contempt was beyond Mr. Connal’s understanding or feeling. “Well mounted! certainly I am _that_, and ever will be, while I can so well afford it,” said Connal, mounting his horse; and identifying himself with the animal, he sat proudly, then bowing to the ladies, who were standing at an open window, “Good day to ye, ladies, till October, when I hope--” But his horse, who did not seem quite satisfied of his identity with the man, would not permit him to say more, and off he went--half his hopes dispersed in empty air. “I know I wish,” said Cornelius O’Shane to himself, as he stood on the steps, looking after the man and horse, “I wish that that unlucky bowl of punch had remained for ever unmixed, at the bottom of which I found this son-in-law for my poor daughter, my innocent Dora, then unborn; but she must make the best of him for me and herself, since the fates and my word, irrevocable as the Styx, have bound me to him, the purse-proud grazier and mean man--not a remnant of a gentleman! as the father was. Oh, my poor Dora!” As King Corny heaved a heartfelt sigh, very difficult to force from his anti-sentimental bosom, Harry Ormond, with a plate of meat in his hand, whistling to his dog to follow him, ran down the steps. “Leave feeding that dog, and come here to me, Harry,” said O’Shane, “and answer me truly such questions as I shall ask.” “_Truly_--if I answer at all,” said Harry. “Answer you must, when I ask you: every man, every gentleman, must answer in all honour for what he does.” “Certainly, answer _for_ what he does,” said Harry. “_For!_--Phoo! Come, none of your tricks upon prepositions to gain time--I never knew you do the like--you’ll give me a worse opinion. I’m no schoolmaster, nor you a grammarian, I hope, to be equivocating on monosyllables.” “Equivocate! I never equivocated, sir,” said Harry.