A nod and a smile, more grave than gay, was Crossley's answer; and a silence ensued on all sides. There was a tone of seriousness even through the levity of what Talbot said, very unlike his ordinary manner; and Mark began, for the first time, to feel that he knew very little about his friend. The silence continued unbroken for some time; for while Mark speculated on the various interpretations Talbot's words might hear, Talbot himself was reflecting on what he had just uttered. There is a very strange, but not wholly unaccountable tendency in men of subtle minds, to venture near enough to disclosures to awaken the suspicions, without satisfying the curiosity of others. The dexterity with which they can approach danger, yet not incur it, is an exercise they learn to pride themselves upon; and as the Indian guides his canoe through the dangerous rapids of the St. Lawrence--now bending to this side and to that--each moment in peril, but ever calm and collected--so do they feel all the excitement of hazard in the game of address. Under an impulse of this kind was it that Talbot spoke, and the unguarded freedom of his manner showed even to so poor an observer as Mark, that the words contained a hidden meaning. “And our gay city of Dublin--what of it, Billy?” said he, at length rallying from his mood of thought, as he nodded his head, and drank to Crossley. “Pretty much as you have always known it. 'A short life and a merry one,' seems the adage in favour here. Every one spending his money and character--” “Like gentlemen, Bill--that's the phrase,” interrupted Talbot; “and a very comprehensive term it is, after all. But what is the Parliament doing?” “Voting itself into Government situations.” “And the Viceroy?” “Snubbing the Parliament.” “And the Government in England?” “Snubbing the Viceroy.” “Well, they are all employed, at least; and, as the French say, that's always something. And who are the playmen now?” “The old set. Tom Whaley and Lord Drogheda--your old friend, Giles Daxon--Sandy Moore----” “Ah, what of Sandy? They told me he won heavily at the October races.” “So he did--beggared the whole club at hazard, and was robbed of the money the night after, when coming up through Naas.” “Ha! I never heard of that, Billy. Let us hear all about it.” “It's soon told, sir. Sandy, who never tries economy till he has won largely, and is reckless enough of money when on the verge of ruin, heard, on leaving the course, that a strange gentleman was waiting to get some one to join him in a chaise up to Dublin. Sandy at once sent the waiter to open the negociations, which were soon concluded, and the stranger appeared--a fat, unwieldy-looking old fellow, with a powdered wig and green goggles--not a very sporting style of travelling companion; but no matter for that, he had a dark chestnut mare with him, that looked like breeding, and with strength enough for any weight over a country.