dy, and you are a rogue."

"True for you, Mollie," said my father pleasantly. "You know it and I
know it. I am indeed a grand rogue. But why would you be tearing to
tatters the name of that poor girl in Ballygoway?"

"'Tis not me that has said more than three words," she cried,
astonished, "and before I speak ill of anybody I hope the devil flies
away with me."

Well, my father palavered on for a long time, telling her that he
would take away the pension of twenty-five shillings a year which he
had given her because he by accident had shot her second cousin in the
leg twelve years before that time. She steadfastly answered that she
would never speak ill of anybody; but the girl was a brazen-faced
wench, and he was no better. My father came away, and I have no doubt
the scandal would still be alive if the old woman had not died, may
the saints rest her!

And so I was no longer angry with Doctor Chord, but spoke to him
pleasantly.

"Come," said I, "I would have you point me out the great swordsmen, if
it pleases you. I am eager to see them, and the talk will be cleanly,
also."

"Aye," said my friend. "Nothing could give me more pleasure. And now,
look you! The tall, straight, grave young man there is Ponsonby, who
flashes the wisest blade in England unless Reginald Forister is
better. Any how, Forister is not here to-day. At least I don't see
him. Ponsonby fought his last duel with a gentleman named Vellum
because Vellum said flatly that Mrs. Catherine Wainescorte was a--"

"Stop there," said I, "and get to the tale of the fighting."

"Well, Ponsonby won without difficulty," said the Doctor; "but it is
said that he took an unfair advantage--"

"Stop again!" I cried. "Stop again! We will talk no more of swordsmen.
Somehow I have lost my interest. I am put to it to think of a subject
for talk, and we may have to do with a period of silence, but that
will do your jaw no injury at any rate."

But I was mistaken in thinking that the little man could forego his
recreation for more than a moment. Suddenly he burst out with a great
spleen:

"Titles!" he cried. "Empty titles! husks, husks, husks! 'Tis all they
care for, this mob! Honourable manhood goes a-begging while the world
worships at the feet of pimply lords! Pah! Lovely girls, the making of
fine wives and mothers, grow old while the world worships at the feet
of some old horse-headed duchess! Pah! Look at those pick-thanks and
flatterers, cringing at the boo