ight been specially eloquent and awfully indignant as
to the wrongs done to Ireland by England. He had dealt with millions
of which Great Britain was supposed by him to have robbed her poor
sister. He was not a good financier, but he did in truth believe in
the millions. He had not much capacity for looking into questions of
political economy, but he had great capacity for arguing about them
and for believing his own arguments. The British Parliament was to
him an abomination. He read the papers daily, and he saw that the
number of votes on his side fell from sixty to forty, and thirty, and
twenty; and he found also that the twenty were men despised by their
own countrymen as well as Englishmen; that they were men trained to
play a false game in order to achieve their objects;--and yet he
believed in the twenty against all the world, and threw in his lot
without a scruple and without a doubt. Nor did he understand at all
the strength of his own words. He had been silenced in Ireland and
had rigorously obeyed the pledge that he had given. For he was a
man to whom personally his word was a bond. Now he had come over to
London, and being under no promise, had begun again to use the words
which came to him without an effort. As he would sweep back his long
hair from his brows, and send sparks of fire out of his eyes, he
would look to be the spirit of patriotic indignation; but he did not
know that he was thus powerful. To tell the truth,--and as he had
said,--to earn a few shillings was the object of his ambition. But
now, on this evening, three London policemen in their full police
uniform, with their fearful police helmets on, had appeared in the
room in which his dramatic associates had on this evening given way
to Gerald O'Mahony's eloquence. Nothing had been said to him; but as
he came home he was aware that two policemen had watched him. And he
was aware also that his words had been taken down in shorthand. Then
he had encountered his daughter, and all her love troubles. He had
heard her expound her views as to life, and had listened as she
had expressed her desire to meet with some Marquis de Carabas. She
had said nothing with which he could find fault; but her whole
views of life were absolutely different from his. According to his
ideas, there should be no Marquises, no singing girls making huge
fortunes--only singing girls in receipt of modest sums of money; and
that when dire necessity compelled them. There should