"You know him, then?" I asked.
The glow faded from his face almost at once.
"I was brought up in that part of the country," he said in a reserved way, as if anxious to drop the subject; "so that of course I knew him when I was a boy."
"Well, he certainly is all you say of him," I declared cordially; "he charmed me from the very first."
"Yes, he has an unusually attractive way with him," Roderick said—"or used to have long ago."
And then he dismissed the subject and began to talk of some matter of current interest. However, he very soon reverted to that one topic which seemed to be occupying his thoughts. Waking out of a reverie, he suddenly exclaimed:
"I wish I were a miniature painter, and I should try to put on ivory, just from memory, that exquisite child-face."
"Perhaps you will see her again," I ventured.
"I never expect to," he said decisively. "New York is not Ireland. People are swallowed up here as in a quicksand."