“So, then, I can't see your master, it seems,” said Con-yers, half peevishly.
“Faix you can't; he's ten miles off by this. He got a letter by the post, and set out half an hour after for Kilkenny. He went to your honor's door, but seeing you was asleep he would n't wake you; 'but, Darby,' says he, 'take care of that young gentleman, and mind,' says he, 'that he wants for nothing.'”
“Very thoughtful of him,—very considerate indeed,” said the youth; but in what precise spirit it is not easy to say.
“Who lives about here? What gentlemen's places are there, I mean?”
“There's Lord Carrackmore, and Sir Arthur Godfrey, and Moore of Ballyduff, and Mrs. Powerscroft of the Grove—”
“Do any of these great folks come down here?”
Darby would like to have given a ready assent,—he would have been charmed to say that they came daily, that they made the place a continual rendezvous; but as he saw no prospect of being able to give his fiction even twenty-four hours' currency, he merely changed from one leg to the other, and, in a tone of apology, said, “Betimes they does, when the sayson is fine.”
“Who are the persons who are most frequently here?”