“I should hope so.” At this moment Mabel appeared upon the steps. “Ah! Mr. Melton,” she exclaimed, a bright, happy flush upon her lovely face; “this is a surprise,” shaking hands with him. “Agreeable?” “Of course. You have introduced yourself, I see, to Mr. Ormonde.” “How’s the governor?” not noticing her observation. “Papa is wonderfully well; his trip has agreed with him _à merveille_. He will be able to encounter the late hours of the coming session without flinching.” “They shau’n’t catch me sitting up, except at the club. You know what brought me over?” “Oh! dear, yes.” “I saw the De Ruthven lot, and, as I could have been elected without leaving London, I’m doosid sorry I came away, except,” he added, “for the pleasure of seeing you.” “Are you quite sure of being returned?” she asked. “Rather,” with a quiet, self-satisfied smile. Miss Hawthorne glanced at me. “You are to be opposed,” I said. “Haw! haw!” he laughed. “That for opposition,” flinging away his cigar-butt. “But I tell you it will be a fierce fight, Mr. Melton,” exclaimed Mabel. “You’ve got a foeman worthy of your steel.” “Some cad of a farmer’s son or a briefless Irish barrister. Ireland wants Englishmen to sit for her and _upon_ her.” “I am going to oppose you, Mr. Melton,” my heart beating very fast as I uttered the words. “Aw!” And extracting an eye-glass from the folds of his coat, he deliberately stuck it in his eye and coolly surveyed me from head to foot. I would have knocked him heels over head, if Miss Hawthorne had not been present. “Fire away,” he said; “but, if you take my advice, you will not run your head against a stone wall.” “And if you take my advice,” I hotly retorted, “you’ll take the next train _en route_ for London, for you have come upon a bootless errand.” “_Nous allons voir_,” with a shrug. “Yes, we shall see the outcome.” “You don’t mean to go on?” “To the bitter end.” “The sinews of war are at my command.” “The sinews of the county are at mine; but come,” I added, suddenly recollecting my position of host, “let us talk the coming campaign over a cutlet and a bottle of champagne.” We entered the house together. Mr. Hawthorne met us in the hall. “Glad to see you, Wynwood, although,” with a ponderous laugh, “I find you in the camp of the enemy.” As I proceeded cellarwards to look up the wine I heard Mr. Melton say: “_That_ cad; I’ll lick him into a cocked hat.” “You’ll eat those words, my fine fellow,” I muttered, “or my name isn’t Ormonde; and for every sneer against Ireland you’ll have my riding-whip across your shoulders.” I couldn’t play the hypocrite, I couldn’t act the Arab, and, while sharing bread and salt with mine enemy, plot his downfall as soon as he quitted my tent; so, making a very plausible excuse, I betook myself to my gay little dog-cart, and was about to give the mare her head when Peter O’Brien whispered to me: “Isn’t that the spalpeen that’s cum over for to thry a fall wud ye, Masther Fred?”