“You could not but have known that the claims against you were much larger than I supposed them to be—double, I suppose. Good heaven!—why in ten years more, at this rate, you would more than consume the fee simple of the whole property! What can I say to you, Kilcullen, to make you look on your own conduct in the proper light?” “I think you have said enough for the purpose; you have told me to marry, and I have consented to do so.” “Do you think, Kilcullen, you have spent the last eight years in a way which it can please a father to contemplate? Do you think I can look back on your conduct with satisfaction or content? And yet you have no regret to express for the past—no promises to make for the future. I fear it is all in vain. I fear that what I am doing—what I am striving to do, is now all in vain. I fear it is hopeless to attempt to recall you from the horrid, reckless, wicked mode of life you have adopted.” The sombre mantle of expostulatory eloquence had now descended on the earl, and he continued, turning full upon his victim, and raising and lowering his voice with monotonous propriety.—“I fear it is to no good purpose that I am subjecting your mother and myself to privation, restraint, and inconvenience; that I am straining every nerve to place you again in a position of respectability, a position suitable to my fortune and your own rank. I am endeavouring to retrieve the desperate extravagance—the—I must say—though I do not wish to hurt your feelings, yet I must say, disgraceful ruin of your past career. And how do you help me? what regret do you show? what promises of amendment do you afford? You drive up to my hall-door at midnight with your boon companion; you disturb the whole household at most unseasonable hours, and subject my family to the same disreputable irregularity in which you have yourself so long indulged. Can such doings, Kilcullen, give me any hopes for the future? Can—” “My lord—I am extremely sorry for the dinner: what can I say more? And as for Mat Tierney, he is your own guest or her ladyship’s—not mine. It is my misfortune to have come in the same carriage with him, but that is the extent of my offence.” “Well, Kilcullen; if you think your conduct has always been such as it ought to be, it is of little use for me to bring up arguments to the contrary.” “I don’t think so, my lord. What can I say more? I have done those things which I ought not to have done. Were I to confess my transgressions for the hour together, I could not say more; except that I have left undone the things which I ought to have done. Or, do you want me to beat my breast and tear my hair?” “I want you, Lord Kilcullen, to show some sense of decency—some filial respect.” “Well, my lord, here I am, prepared to marry a wife of your own choosing, and to set about the business this morning, if you please. I thought you would have called that decent, filial, and respectable.”