“Would you like to back his opinion, sir?” said O'Reilly, with a simulated softness of voice; “or although I rarely wager, I should have no objection to convenience you here, leaving the amount entirely at your option.” “Which means,” said St. George, as his eyes sparkled with wine and passion, “that the weight of _your_ purse is to tilt the beam against that of _my_ opinion. Now, I beg leave to tell you--” “Let me interrupt you, Giles; I never knew my Burgundy disagree with any man before, but I d smash every bottle of it to-morrow if I thought it could make so pleasant a fellow so wrong-headed and unreasonable. What say you if we qualify it with some cognac and water?” “Maurice Darcy is my relative,” said St. George, pushing his glass rudely from him, “and I have yet to learn the unreasonableness of wishing well to a member of one's own family. His father and mine were like brothers! Ay, by Jove! I wonder what either of them would think of the changes time has wrought in their sons' fortunes.” His voice dropped into a low, muttering sound, while he mumbled on, “One a beggar and an exile, the other”--here his eye twinkled with a malicious intelligence as he glanced around the board--“the other the guest of Con Heffernan.” He arose as he spoke, and fortunately the noise thus created prevented his words being overheard. “You 're right, Con,” said he, “that Burgundy has been too much for me. The wine is unimpeachable, notwithstanding.” The others rose also; although pressed in all the customary hospitality of the period to have “one bottle more,” they were resolute in taking leave, doubtless not sorry to escape the risk of any unpleasant termination to the evening's entertainment. The lawyer and the commissioner agreed to see St. George home; for although long seasoned to excesses, age had begun to tell upon him, and his limbs were scarcely more under control than his tongue. O'Reilly had dropped his handkerchief, he was not sure whether in the drawing or the dinner room, and this delayed him a few moments behind the rest; and although he declared, at each moment, the loss of no consequence, and repeated his “good-night,” Heffernan held his hand and would not suffer him to leave. “Try under Mr. O'Reilly's chair, Thomas.--Singular specimen of a by-gone day, the worthy baronet!” said he, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Would you believe it, he and Darcy have not been on speaking terms for thirty years, and yet how irritable be showed himself in his behalf!” “He seems to know something of the family affairs, however,” said O'Reilly, cautiously. “Not more than club gossip; all that about Daly and his wager is a week old.”