But more than once during the evening he discovered himself challenging his own judgment.  Probe as he would with his innocent wit, Matt found himself baffled.  St. Vincent certainly rang true.  Simple, light-hearted, unaffected, joking and being joked in all good-nature, thoroughly democratic.  Matt failed to catch the faintest echo of insincerity.

“May the dogs walk on me grave,” he communed with himself while studying a hand which suffered from a plethora of trumps.  “Is it the years are tellin’, puttin’ the frost in me veins and chillin’ the blood?  A likely lad, an’ is it for me to misjudge because his is a-takin’ way with the ladies?  Just because the swate creatures smile on the lad an’ flutter warm at the sight iv him?  Bright eyes and brave men!  ‘Tis the way they have iv lovin’ valor.  They’re shuddered an’ shocked at the cruel an’ bloody dades iv war, yet who so quick do they lose their hearts to as the brave butcher-bye iv a sodger?  Why not?  The lad’s done brave things, and the girls give him the warm soft smile.  Small reason, that, for me to be callin’ him the devil’s own cub.  Out upon ye, Matt McCarthy, for a crusty old sour-dough, with vitals frozen an’ summer gone from yer heart!  ’Tis an ossification ye’ve become!  But bide a wee, Matt, bide a wee,” he supplemented.  “Wait till ye’ve felt the fale iv his flesh.”

The opportunity came shortly, when St. Vincent, with Frona opposite, swept in the full thirteen tricks.

“A rampse!” Matt cried.  “Vincent, me lad, a rampse!  Yer hand on it, me brave!”

It was a stout grip, neither warm nor clammy, but Matt shook his head dubiously.  “What’s the good iv botherin’?” he muttered to himself as he shuffled the cards for the next deal.  “Ye old fool!  Find out first how Frona darlin’ stands, an’ if it’s pat she is, thin ’tis time for doin’.”

“Oh, McCarthy’s all hunky,” Dave Harney assured them later on, coming to the rescue of St. Vincent, who was getting the rough side of the Irishman’s wit.  The evening was over and the company was putting on its wraps and mittens.  “Didn’t tell you ’bout his visit to the cathedral, did he, when he was on the Outside?  Well, it was suthin’ like this, ez he was explainin’ it to me.  He went to the cathedral durin’ service, an’ took in the priests and choir-boys in their surplices,—­parkas, he called ’em,—­an’ watched the burnin’ of the holy incense.  ‘An’ do ye know, Dave, he sez to me, ‘they got in an’ made a smudge, and there wa’n’t a darned mosquito in sight.’”

“True, ivery word iv it.”  Matt unblushingly fathered Harney’s yarn.  “An’ did ye niver hear tell iv the time Dave an’ me got drunk on condensed milk?”

“Oh!  Horrors!” cried Mrs. Schoville.  “But how?  Do tell us.”