“Your note has just come. I am forced to say that its tone is not that to which, in the sphere I have moved, I have been accustomed. If I am to regard you as my superior officer, duty cries, 'Submit.' If you be simply a civilian, no matter how exalted, I ask explanation. The dinner at the Dawson Arms _was_ necessary; the champagne was _not_ excessive; none of the company were really drunk before ten o'clock; and the destruction of the furniture was a _plaisanterie_ of a young gentleman from Louth who was going into holy orders, and might most probably not have another such spree in all his life again. Are you satisfied? If not, tell me what and where any other satisfaction may meet your wishes. You say, 'Let us meet.' I reply, 'Yes, in any way you desire.' You have not answered my demand--it was demand, not request--to be Count M'Caskey. I have written to Count Caffarelli on the subject, and have thoughts of addressing the king. Don't talk to me of decorations. I have no room for them on the breast of my coat. I am forced to say these things to you, for I cannot persuade myself that you really know or understand the man you correspond with. After all, it took Radetzky a year, and Omar Pasha seventeen months, to arrive at that knowledge which my impatience, unjustly perhaps, complains that you have not attained to. Yet I feel we shall like each other; and were it not like precipitancy, I'd say, believe me, dear Maitland, very faithfully your friend, “Miles M'Caskey.” The answer to this was very brief, and ran thus:-- “Lyle Abbey, August. “Sir,--You will come to Coleraine, and await my orders there,--the first of which will be to take no liberties of any kind with your obedient servant, “Norman Maitland. “Major M'Caskey, 'The Dawson Arms, Castle Durrow. “P. S. Avoid all English acquaintances on your road. Give yourself out to be a foreigner, and speak as little as possible.” CHAPTER IX. MAITLAND'S FRIEND “I don't think I 'll walk down to the Burnside with you to-day,” said Beck Graham to Maitland, on the morning after their excursion. “And why not?” “People have begun to talk of our going off together alone,--long solitary walks. They say it means something--or nothing.” “So, I opine, does every step and incident of our lives.” “Well. You understand what I intended to say.” “Not very clearly, perhaps; but I shall wait a little further explanation. What is it that the respectable public imputes to us?” “That you are a very dangerous companion for a young lady in a country walk.” “But am I? Don't you think you are in a position to refute such a calumny?” “I spoke of you as I found you.” “And how might that be?”