"My great-grandfather, Anthony Asshlin," he went on deliberately, "was as fine a specimen of the Irish gentleman as ever lived--I don't care who denies it. Have a glass of port, James? An appreciation of good wine was the one thing he left his descendants." There was an awkward silence while he filled the two glasses and pushed one towards his guest. But Milbanke's ease of mind had already been upset. He held no key to the disconcerting situation; and it puzzled and perplexed him, as his first impression of his old friend had done. Both possessed elements that he vaguely knew to be hidden from his sight--out of focus from his present point of view. For a space he sat warily fingering his glass, but making no attempt to drink. Without openly seeming to observe it, he was conscious of Asshlin's half-humorous, half-aggressive mood; of the nervous attitude of the younger girl, and of Clodagh's flushed face. To a newly arrived guest, the position was strained. With growing embarrassment he glanced from the rich, dark wine in his glass to its reflection in the polished surface of the table. Finally the awkwardness of the prolonged silence moved him to speech. "A great-grandfather who was a judge of wine is always worthy of consideration," he murmured amiably, as he lifted the glass to his lips. "I'm afraid mine was a teetotaller." But his feeble attempt at humour was not destined to be successful. It drew a laugh from his host, but it was a laugh that found no echo. "You're right, James!" Asshlin cried. "By Jupiter, you're right! Anthony Asshlin was the finest man in the county--and I'm proud of him." "He was the worst man in the county--and the greatest fool!" The words, so sudden and unexpected, came from Clodagh. For several seconds she had been sitting absolutely still; but now she lifted her head again, her flushed face glowing, her bright eyes alight with the quick enthusiasm, the hot temper that she had inherited from her race. With a swift movement she turned from her father to Milbanke. "Do you think it great to be a fool--and a gambler?" she demanded. Asshlin set down his glass noisily. "Anthony Asshlin was no gambler," he said. "He was a sportsman." Clodagh's lip curled. "A sportsman!" she exclaimed. "Is it sport to keep game-cocks, to play cards, and throw dice? To squander money that belongs to other people? To mortgage your property and to--to--to kill your brother?" The last words burst from her impetuously, impulsively; then suddenly she paused, shocked by her own daring. The silence that followed was short. With an equal impetuosity, Asshlin pushed back his chair and rose. "By Gad, Clo, that's going too far!" he cried. "I'll not hear my great-grandfather called a murderer." "All the same, he killed his brother." "In a duel. Gentlemen had to fight in those days." "Because of cards! Because they quarrelled over cards!" Then, with a fresh change of expression, she appealed again to Milbanke.