‘Well, sir, I think he has made a fool of himself and knows it.’ ‘You are much too good-natured, Willie,’ observed Margaret indignantly. ‘I am sure, Frank, you agree with me that Mr. Talbot’s conduct has been most treacherous and malignant.’ Dennis had not opened his lips since William Henry’s return; he had watched for it with at least as much anxiety as the rest, but the refutation of what had been alleged seemed to have given him rather relief than satisfaction. He was too good a fellow to wish any disgrace to happen even to a rival; but (as Margaret read his behaviour) he could hardly exult in that rival’s victory, which could but result in Mr. Erin’s having greater confidence in the young fellow than ever, and consequently in the bettering of his chance of gaining his cousin’s hand. ‘Yes,’ said Dennis quietly, ‘William Henry has made the great mistake of allowing an Irishman of low type to be on familiar terms with him. The men of that nation, when they are of sterling nature, are among the best, as they are undoubtedly among the most agreeable, men in the world; but there are a great many counterfeits—men who, like Talbot, under the mask of _bonhomie_, conceal a morose and malignant disposition; they belong, in fact, to the same class of their fellow-countrymen who shoot men from behind a hedge.’ ‘Quite true,’ observed Mr. Erin approvingly. ‘I have never heard that type of man—to which Malone, for one, belongs—so graphically described.’ ‘I do hope, Willie, you will have nothing more to do with him,’ said Margaret, earnestly. ‘You may depend upon it he will have nothing more to do with _me_,’ answered the young fellow, laughing. ‘He already knows what I thought of his verses; indeed, it was my telling him my honest opinion of them which has so set him against me; and now he knows what I think of himself.’ ‘Well said, my lad,’ said the antiquary, rubbing his hands and smiling with the consciousness of triumph. ‘One need not fear any malice when we are conscious of no ill-doing on our own part. My good Dennis, you look so exceedingly glum that, if one didn’t know you, one would think that you had not that cause for confidence.’ ‘As regards what we were just talking of, that Irish gentleman,’ observed Dennis, sententiously, ‘I have no confidence in him at all. There is always reason to fear a man who carries a knife under his waistcoat.’ ‘Pooh, pooh, Dennis! you take such sombre views of everything.’ ‘At all events,’ put in Margaret, gently, ‘Frank is not alarmed upon his own account.’ ‘Gad! that’s true,’ observed the antiquary, drily: ‘he takes care to let us know that these matters are no concern of his. If all these wonderful discoveries that have been vouchsafed to us these last few months should turn out to be so much waste paper, I don’t think he would sleep a wink the worse for it.’