Owen Fitzgerald drove home from that ball in a state of mind that
was hardly satisfactory. In the first place, Miss Letty had made a
direct attack upon his morals, which he had not answered in the most
courteous manner.

"I have heard a great deal of your doings. Master Owen," she said to
him. "A fine house you're keeping."

"Why don't you come and join us, Aunt Letty?" he replied. "It would
be just the thing for you."

"God forbid!" said the old maid, turning up her eyes to heaven.

"Oh, you might do worse, you know. With us you'd only drink and play
cards, and perhaps hear a little strong language now and again. But
what's that to slander, and calumny, and bearing false witness
against one's neighbour?" and so saying he ended that interview--not
in a manner to ingratiate himself with his relative, Miss Letty
Fitzgerald.

After that, in the supper-room, more than one wag of a fellow had
congratulated him on his success with the widow. "She's got some
some sort of a jointure, I suppose," said one. "She's very
young-looking, certainly, to be the mother of that girl," declared
another. "Upon my word, she's a handsome woman still," said a third.
"And what title will you get when you marry her, Fitz?" asked a
fourth, who was rather ignorant as to the phases under which the
British peerage develops itself.

Fitzgerald pshawed, and pished, and poohed; and then, breaking away