This said--which, had she been at the moment mistress of herself, she
would not have let out--Lady Clonbrony abruptly quitted the room. Her
son stood motionless, saying to himself--

'Is this my mother?--How altered!'

The next morning he seized an opportunity of speaking to his father,
whom he caught, with difficulty, just when he was going out, as usual,
for the day. Lord Colambre, with all the respect due to his father, and
with that affectionate manner by which he always knew how to soften the
strength of his expressions, made nearly the same declarations of his
resolution, by which his mother had been so much surprised and offended.
Lord Clonbrony seemed more embarrassed, but not so much displeased. When
Lord Colambre adverted, as delicately as he could, to the selfishness of
desiring from him the sacrifice of liberty for life, to say nothing of
his affections, merely to enable his family to make a splendid figure
in London, Lord Clonbrony exclaimed, 'That's all nonsense!--cursed
nonsense! That's the way we are obliged to state the thing to your
mother, my dear boy, because I might talk her deaf before she would
understand or listen to anything else. But, for my own share, I don't
care a rush if London was sunk in the salt sea. Little Dublin for my
money, as Sir Terence O'Fay says.'

'Who is Sir Terence O'Fay, may I ask, sir?'

'Why, don't you know Terry? Ay, you've been so long at Cambridge, I
forgot. And did you never see Terry?'

'I have seen him, sir--I met him yesterday at Mr. Mordicai's, the
coachmaker's.'