helped himself without daring to ask where the cigars came from,
nor did he comment on their fragrance. He smoked in discomfort; the
presence of the servant irritated him, and he walked into the library
and shut the door. The carved panelling, in the style of the late
Italian renaissance, was dark and shadowy, and the eyes of the
portraits looked upon the intruder. Men in armour, holding scrolls;
men in rich doublets, their hands on their swords; women in elaborate
dresses of a hundred tucks, and hooped out prodigiously. He was
especially struck by one, a lady in green, who played with long white
hands on a spinet. But the massive and numerous oak bookcases,
strictly wired with strong brass wire, and the tall oak fireplace,
surmounted with a portrait of a man in a red coat holding a letter,
whetted the edge of his depression, and Mike looked round with a pain
of loneliness upon his face. Speaking aloud for relief, he said--

"No doubt it is all very fine, everything is up to the mark, but
there's no denying that it is--well, it is dull. Had I known it was
going to be like this I'd have brought somebody down with me--a nice
woman. Kitty would be delightful here. But no; I would not bring her
here for ten times the money the place is worth; to do so would be an
insult on Helen's memory.... Poor dear Helen! I wish I had seen her
before she died; and to think that she has left me all--a beautiful
house, plate, horses, carriages, wine; nothing is wanting; everything
I have is hers, even this cigar." He threw the end of his cigar into
the fireplace.

"How strange! what an extraordinary transformation! And all this is
mine, even her ancestors! How angry that old fellow looks at me--me,
the son of an Irish peasant! Yes, my father was that--well, not
exactly that, he was a grazier. But why fear the facts? he was a
peasant; and my mother was a French maid--well, a governess--well, a
nursery governess, _une bonne_; she was dismissed from her situation
for carrying on (it seems awful to speak of one's mother so; but it
is the fact).... Respect! I love my mother well enough, but I'm not
going to delude myself because I had a mother. Mother didn't like our
cabin by the roadside; father treated her badly; she ran away, taking
me with her. She was lucky enough to meet with a rich manufacturer,
who kept her fairly well--I believe he used to allow her a thousand
francs a month--and I used to call him uncle. When mother died he
sent me