There was a bottle of sherry and there was a bottle of port, procured, chiefly for the sake of appearance, from a grocer's shop at Ennistimon;--but the whiskey had come from Cork and had been in the priest's keeping for the last dozen years.

He good-humouredly acknowledged that the wine was nothing, but expressed an opinion that Mr.Neville might find it difficult to beat the "sperrits." "It's thrue for you, Father Marty," said the rival priest from Milltown Malbay, "and it's you that should know good sperrits from bad if ony man in Ireland does." "'Deed thin," replied the priest of Liscannor, "barring the famine years, I've mixed two tumblers of punch for meself every day these forty years, and if it was all together it'd be about enough to give Mr.Neville a day's sale-shooting on in his canoe." Immediately after dinner Neville was invited to light his cigar, and everything was easy, comfortable, and to a certain degree adventurous.

There were the two priests, and a young Mr.Finucane from Ennistimon,--who however was not quite so much to Fred's taste as the elder men.

Mr.Finucane wore various rings, and talked rather largely about his father's demesne.

But the whole thing was new, and by no means dull.