“Oh, ay; the old peer,” replied his lordship, in a languid voice, “coming as a missionary to reform the profane and infidel. I wish he would let me alone, and subscribe to the Missionary Society at once.” “But, my dear Dunroe, are you asleep?” “Very nearly, I believe. I wish I was.” “But what's to be done with certain of these pictures? You don't intend his lordship should see them, I hope?” “No; certainly not, Tom. We must have them removed. Will you see about it, Tom, like a good fellow? Stow them, however, in some safe place, where they won't be injured.” “Those five must go,” said Norton. “No,” replied his lordship, “let the Magdalen stay; it will look like a tendency to repentance, you know, and the old peer may like it.” “Dunroe, my dear fellow, you know I make no pretence to religion; but I don't relish the tone in which you generally speak of that most respectable old nobleman, your father.” “Don't you, Tom? Well, but, I say, the idea of a most respectable old nobleman is rather a shabby affair. It's merely the privilege of age, Tom. I hope I shall never live to be termed a most respectable old nobleman. Pshaw, my dear Tom, it is too much. It's a proof that he wants character.” “I wish, in the mean time, Dunroe, that you and I had as much of that same commodity as the good old peer could spare us.” “Well, I suppose you do, Tom; I dare say. My sister is coming with him too.” “Yes; so he says in the letter.” “Well, I suppose I must endure that also; an aristocratic lecture on the one hand, and the uncouth affections of a hoiden on the other. It's hard enough, though.” Tom now rang the bell, and in a few moments a servant entered. “Wilcox,” said Norton, “get Taylor and M'Intyre to assist you in removing those five pictures; place them carefully in the green closet, which you will lock.” “Yes, carefully, Wilcox,” said his lordship; “and afterwards give the key to Mr. Norton.” “Yes, my lord.” In a few minutes the paintings were removed, and the conversation began where it had been left off. “This double visit, Tom, will be a great bore. I wish I could avoid it--philosophized by the father, beslobbered by the sister--faugh!” “These books, too, my lord, had better be put aside, I think.” “Well, I suppose so; lock them in that drawer.” Norton did so, and then proceeded. “Now, my dear Dunroe--” “Tom,” said his lordship, interrupting him, “I know what you are going to say--try and put yourself into something like moral trim for the old peer--is not that it? Do you know, Tom, I have some thoughts of becoming religious? What is religion, Tom? You know we were talking about it the other day. You said it was a capital thing for the world--that it sharpened a man, and put him up to anything, and so on.” “What has put such a notion into your head now, my lord?” “I don't know--nothing, I believe. Can religion be taught, Tom? Could one, for instance, take lessons in it?” “For what purpose do you propose it, my lord?”