“Dunroe, my dear fellow, you know I make no pretence to religion; but I don’t relish the tone in which you generally speak of that most respectable old nobleman, your father.”

“Don’t you, Tom?  Well, but, I say, the idea of a most respectable old nobleman is rather a shabby affair.  It’s merely the privilege of age, Tom.  I hope I shall never live to be termed a most respectable old nobleman.  Pshaw, my dear Tom, it is too much.  It’s a proof that he wants character.”

“I wish, in the mean time, Dunroe, that you and I had as much of that same commodity as the good old peer could spare us.”

“Well, I suppose you do, Tom; I dare say.  My sister is coming with him too.”

“Yes; so he says in the letter.”

“Well, I suppose I must endure that also; an aristocratic lecture on the one hand, and the uncouth affections of a hoiden on the other.  It’s hard enough, though.”

Tom now rang the bell, and in a few moments a servant entered.

“Wilcox,” said Norton, “get Taylor and M’Intyre to assist you in removing those five pictures; place them carefully in the green closet, which you will lock.”

“Yes, carefully, Wilcox,” said his lordship; “and afterwards give the key to Mr. Norton.”

“Yes, my lord.”

In a few minutes the paintings were removed, and the conversation began where it had been left off.

“This double visit, Tom, will be a great bore.  I wish I could avoid it—­philosophized by the father, beslobbered by the sister—­faugh!”

“These books, too, my lord, had better be put aside, I think.”

“Well, I suppose so; lock them in that drawer.”

Norton did so, and then proceeded.  “Now, my dear Dunroe—­”

“Tom,” said his lordship, interrupting him, “I know what you are going to say—­try and put yourself into something like moral trim for the old peer—­is not that it?  Do you know, Tom, I have some thoughts of becoming religious?  What is religion, Tom?  You know we were talking about it the other day.  You said it was a capital thing for the world—­that it sharpened a man, and put him up to anything, and so on.”

“What has put such a notion into your head now, my lord?”

“I don’t know—­nothing, I believe.  Can religion be taught, Tom?  Could one, for instance, take lessons in it?”

“For what purpose do you propose it, my lord?”

“I don’t know—­for two or three purposes, I believe.”

“Will your lordship state them?”

“Why, Tom, I should wish to do the old peer; and touching the baronet’s daughter, who is said to be very conscientious—­which I suppose means the same thing as religion—­I should wish to—­”

“To do her too,” added Norton, laughing.

“Yes, I believe so; but I forget.  Don’t the pas’ns teach it?”

“Yes, my lord, by precept, most of them do; not so many by example.”

“But it’s the theory only I want.  You don’t suppose I intend to practice religion, Tom, I hope?”