do not see how the learned can condemn it.  Upon the day appointed for dinner only four sat down to it—­that is to say, the squire, his daughter, Sir Robert Whitecraft, and Reilly.  They had met in the drawing-room some time before its announcement, and as the old man introduced the two latter, Reilly’s bow was courteous and gentlemanly, whilst that of the baronet, who not only detested Reilly with the hatred of a demon, but resolved to make him feel the superiority of rank and wealth, was frigid, supercilious, and offensive.  Reilly at once saw this, and, as he knew not that the baronet was in possession of his secret, he felt his ill-bred insolence the more deeply.  He was too much of a gentleman, however, and too well acquainted with the principles and forms of good breeding, to seem to notice it in the slightest degree.  The old squire at this time had not at all given Reilly up, but still his confidence in him was considerably shaken.  He saw, moreover, that, notwithstanding what had occurred at their last interview, the baronet had forgotten the respect due both to himself and his daughter; and, as he had, amidst all his eccentricities, many strong touches of the old Irish gentleman about him, he resolved to punish him for his ungentlemanly deportment.  Accordingly, when dinner was announced, he said: 

“Mr. Reilly, you will give Miss Folliard your arm.”

We do not say that the worthy baronet squinted, but there was a bad, vindictive look in his small, cunning eyes, which, as they turned upon Reilly, was ten times more repulsive than the worst squint that ever disfigured a human countenance.  To add to his chagrin, too, the squire came out with a bit of his usual sarcasm.

“Come, baronet,” said he, “here’s my arm.  I am the old man, and you are the old lady; and now for dinner.”

In the meantime Reilly and the Cooleen Bawn had gone far enough in advance to be in a condition to speak without being heard.

“That,” said she, “is the husband my father intends for me, or, rather, did intend; for, do you know, that you have found such favor in his sight that—­that—­” she hesitated, and Reilly, looking into her face, saw that she blushed deeply, and he felt by her arm that her whole frame trembled with emotion.

“Proceed, dearest love,” said he; “what is it?”

“I have not time to tell you now,” she replied, “but he mentioned a project to me which, if it could be accomplished, would seal both your happiness and mine forever.  Your religion is the only obstacle.”

“And that, my love,” he replied, “is an insurmountable one.”

“Alas!  I feared as much,” she replied, sighing bitterly as she spoke.

The old squire took the head of the table, and requested Sir Robert to take the foot; his daughter was at his right hand, and Reilly opposite her, by which means, although denied any confidential use of the tongue, their eyes enjoyed very gratifying advantages, and there passed between them occasionally some of those rapid glances which, especially when lovers are under surveillance, concentrate in their lightning flash more significance, more hope, more joy, and more love, than ever was conveyed by the longest and tenderest gaze of affection under other circumstances.