Matters were in this state when Power at length arrived in Cork, to take command of our detachment and make the final preparations for our departure. I had been, as usual, spending the evening at the major’s, and had just reached my quarters, when I found my friend sitting at my fire, smoking his cigar and solacing himself with a little brandy-and-water.
“At last,” said he, as I entered,—“at last! Why, where the deuce have you been till this hour,—past two o’clock? There is no ball, no assembly going on, eh?”
“No,” said I, half blushing at the eagerness of the inquiry; “I’ve been spending the evening with a friend.”
“Spending the evening! Say, rather, the night! Why, confound you, man, what is there in Cork to keep you out of bed till near three?”
“Well, if you must know, I have been supping at a Major Dalrymple’s,—a devilish good fellow, with two such daughters!”
“Ahem!” said Power, shutting one eye knowingly, and giving a look like a Yorkshire horse-dealer. “Go on.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“Go on; continue.”
“I’ve finished; I’ve nothing more to tell.”
“So, they’re here, are they?” said he, reflectingly.