of its idolatrous tendency. Those to whom he spoke, however, knew very
little about it, and, like those of all creeds in a similar predicament,
he found that, in proportion to their ignorance of its doctrines, arose
the vehemence and sincerity of their defence of it. This, however, is
human nature, and we do not see how the learned can condemn it. Upon the
day appointed for dinner only four sat down to it--that is to say, the
squire, his daughter, Sir Robert Whitecraft, and Reilly. They had met in
the drawing-room some time before its announcement, and as the old man
introduced the two latter, Reilly's bow was courteous and gentlemanly,
whilst that of the baronet, who not only detested Reilly with the hatred
of a demon, but resolved to make him feel the superiority of rank and
wealth, was frigid, supercilious, and offensive. Reilly at once saw
this, and, as he knew not that the baronet was in possession of his
secret, he felt his ill-bred insolence the more deeply. He was too much
of a gentleman, however, and too well acquainted with the principles and
forms of good breeding, to seem to notice it in the slightest degree.
The old squire at this time had not at all given Reilly up, but still
his confidence in him was considerably shaken. He saw, moreover, that,
notwithstanding what had occurred at their last interview, the baronet
had forgotten the respect due both to himself and his daughter; and, as
he had, amidst all his eccentricities, many strong touches of the
old Irish gentleman about him, he resolved to punish him for his
ungentlemanly deportment. Accordingly, when dinner was announced, he
said:

"Mr. Reilly, you will give Miss Folliard your arm."

We do not say that the worthy baronet squinted, but there was a bad,
vindictive look in his small, cunning eyes, which, as they turned upon
Reilly, was ten times more repulsive than the worst squint that ever