‘These—­things—­Sir—­are—­are—­very—­un—­pleasant,’ said the general, adjusting the focus of the glass, and speaking slowly—­though no Spanish dandy ever relished a bull-fight more than he an affair of the kind.  He and old Bligh had witnessed no less than five—­not counting this—­in which officers of the R.I.A. were principal performers, from the same sung post of observation.  The general, indeed, was conventionally supposed to know nothing of them, and to reprobate the practice itself with his whole soul.  But somehow, when an affair of the sort came off on the Fifteen Acres, he always happened to drop in, at the proper moment, upon his old crony, the colonel, and they sauntered into the demi-bastion together, and quietly saw what was to be seen.  It was Miss Becky Chattesworth who involved the poor general in this hypocrisy.  It was not exactly her money; it was her force of will and unflinching audacity that established her control over an easy, harmless, plastic old gentleman.

’They are unpleasant—­devilish unpleasant—­somewhere in the body, I think, hey? they’re stooping again, stooping again—­eh?—­plaguy unpleasant, Sir (the general was thinking how Miss Becky’s tongue would wag, and what she might not even do, if O’Flaherty died).  Ha! on they go again, and a—­Puddock—­getting in—­and that’s Toole.  He’s not so much hurt—­eh?  He helped himself a good deal, you saw; but (taking heart of grace) when a quarrel does occur, Sir, I believe, after all, ’tis better off the stomach at once—­a few passes—­you know—­or the crack of a pistol—­who’s that got in—­the priest—­hey? by George!’

‘Awkward if he dies a Papist,’ said cynical old Bligh—­the R.I.A. were Protestant by constitution.

‘That never happens in our corps, Sir,’ said the general, haughtily; ’but, as I say, when a quarrel—­does—­occur—­Sir—­there, they’re off at last; when it does occur—­I say—­heyday! what a thundering pace! a gallop, by George! that don’t look well (a pause)—­and—­and—­a—­about what you were saying—­you know he couldn’t die a Papist in our corps—­no one does—­no one ever did—­it would be, you know—­it would be a trick, Sir, and O’Flaherty’s a gentleman; it could not be—­(he was thinking of Miss Becky again—­she was so fierce on the Gunpowder Plot, the rising of 1642, and Jesuits in general, and he went on a little flustered); but then, Sir, as I was saying, though the thing has its uses——.’

‘I’d like to know where society’d be without it,’ interposed Bligh, with a sneer.

’Though it may have its uses, Sir; it’s not a thing one can sit down and say is right—­we can’t!’

’I’ve heard your sister, Miss Becky, speak strongly on that point, too,’said Bligh.

‘Ah!  I dare say,’ said the general, quite innocently, an coughing a little.  This was a sore point with the hen-pecked warrior, and the grim scarcecrow by his side knew it, and grinned through his telescope; ’and you see—­I say—­eh!  I think they’re breaking up, a—­and—­I say—­I—­it seems all over—­eh—­and so, dear colonel, I must take my leave, and——.’