what I hope I never shall be."

"My dear Lord Ballindine; all poor men are curses, to themselves or
some one else."

"A poor absentee's the worst of all. He leaves nothing behind, and can
leave nothing. He wants all he has for himself; and, if he doesn't give
his neighbours the profit which must arise somewhere, from his own
consumption, he can give nothing. A rich man can afford to leave three
or four thousand a year behind him, in the way of wages for labour."

"My gracious, Frank! You should put all that in a pamphlet, and not
inflict it on a poor devil waiting for his dinner. At present, give
your profit to Morrison, and come and consume some mock-turtle; and
I'll tell you what Sheil's going to do for us all."

Lord Ballindine did as he was bid, and left the room to prepare for
dinner. By the time that he had eaten his soup, and drank a glass of
wine, he had got rid of the fit of blue devils which the thoughts
of his poverty had brought on, and he spent the rest of the evening
comfortably enough, listening to his friend's comical version of
Shell's speech; receiving instruction from that great master of the art
as to the manner in which he should treat his Derby colt, and being
flattered into the belief that he would be a prominent favourite for
that great race.

When they had finished their wine, they sauntered into the Kildare
Street Club.

Blake was soon busy with his little betting-book, and Lord Ballindine