“Ladies come?” said Ross. “Girls at Monty's suppers? Rather! what should you think? Cleopatra--but you ought to be there. I must be getting off myself very soon. There's a supper coming off next week at Handsome Honey's. Who's Honey? Proprietor of a night-house in the Haymarket. Night-house? You come and see, my dear.” Cæsar dropped the newspaper and looked across at Philip. The gaze was long and embarrassing, and, for want of better conversation, Philip asked Cæsar if he was thinking. “Aw, thinking, thinking, and thinking again, sir,” said Cæsar. Then, drawing his chair nearer to Philip's, he added, in a half whisper, “I'm getting a bit of a skute into something, though. See yonder? They're calling his father a miser. The man's racking his tenants and starving his land. But I believe enough the young brass lagh (a weed) is choking the ould grain.” Cæsar, as he spoke, tipped his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Ross, and, seeing this, Ross interrupted his conversation with Kate to address himself to her father. “So you've been reading the paper, Mr. Cregeen?” “Aw, reading and reading,” said Cæsar grumpily. Then in another tone, “You're home again from London, sir? Great doings yonder, they're telling me. Battles, sir, great battles.” Ross elevated his eyebrows. “Have you heard of them then?” he asked. “Aw, heard enough,” said Cæsar, “meetings, and conferences, and conventions, and I don't know what.” “Oh, oh, I see,” said Ross, with a look at Kate. “They're doing without hell in England now-a-days--that's a quare thing, sir. Conditional immorality they're calling it--the singlerest thing I know. Taking hell away drops the tailboard out of a man's religion, eh?” The time for closing came, and Philip had waited in vain. Only one cut had come his way, and that had not been his own. As he rose to go, Kate had said, “We didn't expect to see you again for six months, Mr. Christian.” “So it seems,” said Philip, and Kate laughed a little, and that was all the work of his evening, and the whole result of his errand. Cæsar was waiting for him in the porch. His face was white, and it twitched visibly. It was plain to see that the natural man was fighting in Cæsar. “Mr. Christian, sir,” said he, “are you the gentleman that came here to speak to me for Peter Quilliam?” “I am,” said Philip. “Then do you remember the ould Manx saying, 'Perhaps the last dog may be catching the hare?'” “Leave it to me, Mr. Cregeen,” said Philip through his teeth. Half a minute afterwards he was swinging down the dark road homewards, by the side of Ross, who was drawling along with his cold voice.