“Why then, I don’t know; I wouldn’t like to be saying against the gentleman’s friend that he spoke of; and doubtless his honour knows him well, or he wouldn’t say so much of him.” “Indeed I do,” said Blake. “I never give a man a good character till I know he deserves it. Well, Frank, I’ll go and dress, and leave you and Mr. Kelly to your business,” and he left the room. “I’m sorry to hear you speak so hard agin Mr. Barry, my lord,” began Martin. “May-be he mayn’t be so bad. Not but that he’s a cross-grained piece of timber to dale with.” “And why should you be sorry I’d speak against him? There’s not more friendship, I suppose, between you and Barry Lynch now, than there used to be?” “Why, not exactly frindship, my lord; but I’ve my rasons why I’d wish you not to belittle the Lynches. Your lordship might forgive them all, now the old man’s dead.” “Forgive them!—indeed I can, and easily. I don’t know I ever did any of them an injury, except when I thrashed Barry at Eton, for calling himself the son of a gentleman. But what makes you stick up for them? You’re not going to marry the daughter, are you?” Martin blushed up to his forehead as his landlord thus hit the nail on the head; but, as it was dark, his blushes couldn’t be seen. So, after dangling his hat about for a minute, and standing first on one foot, and then on the other, he took courage, and answered. “Well, Mr. Frank, that is, your lordship, I mane—I b’lieve I might do worse.” “Body and soul, man!” exclaimed the other, jumping from his recumbent position on the sofa, “You don’t mean to tell me you’re going to marry Anty Lynch?” “In course not,” answered Martin; “av’ your lordship objects.” “Object, man!—How the devil can I object? Why, she’s six hundred a year, hasn’t she?” “About four, my lord, I think’s nearest the mark.” “Four hundred a year! And I don’t suppose you owe a penny in the world!” “Not much—unless the last gale [10] to your lordship—and we never pay that till next May.” “And so you’re going to marry Anty Lynch!” again repeated Frank, as though he couldn’t bring himself to realise the idea; “and now, Martin, tell me all about it,—how the devil you managed it—when it’s to come off—and how you and Barry mean to hit it off together when you’re brothers. I suppose I’ll lose a good tenant any way?” “Not av’ I’m a good one, you won’t, with my consent, my lord.” “Ah! but it’ll be Anty’s consent, now, you know. She mayn’t like Toneroe. But tell me all about it. What put it into your head?” “Why, my lord, you run away so fast; one can’t tell you anything. I didn’t say I was going to marry her—at laist, not for certain;—I only said I might do worse.” “Well then; are you going to marry her, or rather, is she going to marry you, or is she not?” “Why, I don’t know. I’ll tell your lordship just how it is. You know when old Sim died, my lord?” “Of course I do. Why, I was at Kelly’s Court at the time.”