en Brian's guest for the last fortnight,
and who is to remain as long as suits him or as long after the
grouse-shooting in August as he wills, has taken himself into the garden
to smoke a cigar. This he does at a hint from Brian.

Now, finding himself alone with his uncle, Brian says, in the casual
tone of one making an indifferent remark,--

"By the bye, I can see you are not on good terms with those old ladies
at Moyne."

As he speaks he helps himself leisurely to some strawberries, and so
refrains from looking at his uncle.

"No," says The Desmond, shortly.

"Some old quarrel I have been given to understand."

"I should prefer not speaking about it," says the squire.

"Twinges of conscience even at this remote period," thinks Brian, and is
rather tickled at the idea, as he lifts his head to regard his uncle in
a new light,--that is, as a regular Don Juan.

"Well, of course, I dare say I should not have mentioned the subject,"
he says, apologetically; "but I had no idea it was a sore point. It was
not so much bad taste on my part as ignorance. I beg your pardon!"

"It was a very unhappy affair altogether," says Don Juan.

"Very unfortunate indeed, from what I have heard."

"_More_ than unfortunate!--right down disgraceful!" says the squire,
with such unlooked-for energy as raises astonishment in the breast of
his nephew. ("By Jove, one would think the old chap had only now
awakened to a sense of his misconduct," he thinks, irreverently.)

"Oh, well," he says, leniently, "hardly _that_, you know."

"_Quite_ that," emphatically.

"It has been often done before: yours is not a solitary case."

"Solitary or not, there were elements about it inexcusable," says the
old squire, beating his hand upon the table as though to emphasize his
words.

"I wouldn't take it so much to heart if I were you," says Brian, who is
really beginning to pity him.

"It has lain on my heart for twenty years. I can't take it off now,"
says the squire.

"You have evidently suffered," returns Brian, who is getting more and
more amazed at the volcano he has roused. "Of course I can quite
understand that if you were once more to find yourself in similar
circumstances you would act very differently."

"I should indeed!--_very_ differently. A man seldom makes a fool of
himself twice in a lifetime."

("He's regretting her now," thinks Brian.)

But out loud he says,--

"You didn't show much wisdom, I daresay."

"No, none; and