"Ah, I forgot, you are not acquainted with these phrases of the Orient. A
lakh, my friend, is a hundred thousand rupees, say twelve thousand
pounds. And I warrant you I will not squander it as a certain gentleman
we know squandered his."

"You mean General Clive?"

"Colonel Clive, my friend. Yes, I say Colonel Clive has squandered his
fortune. Why, he came home with thirty lakhs at the least: and what does
he do? He must ruffle it in purple and fine linen, and feed the fat in
royal entertainments; then, forsooth, he stands for a seat in Parliament,
pours out his gold like water--to what end? A petition is presented
against his return: the House holds an inquiry; and the end of the sorry
farce is, that Mr. Robert Clive's services are dispensed with. When I
think of the good money he has wasted--But then, sir, I am no politician.
Colonel Clive and I are two ruined men; 'tis a somewhat strange
coincidence that he and I are almost of an age, and that we both, before
many weeks are past, shall be crossing the ocean once more to retrieve
our fallen fortunes."

Walking side by side during this conversation they had now come into the
road leading past Desmond's home. In the distance, approaching them,
appeared a post chaise, drawn by four galloping horses. The sight broke
the thread of the conversation.

"'Tis the squire at last!" cried Desmond. "Sure he must have put up at
Newcastle overnight."

But that he was intently watching the rapid progress of the chaise, he