“That’s what I never did yet.”
“All right, then. What he said was, ‘Show O’Rorke that you mean to deal liberally with him. Let him see that you don’t want to drive a hard bargain, and he’ll stand by you like a man.’”
“When he said that, he knew me well.”
“He said that you were a fine-hearted, plucky fellow, who had not the success he deserved in life.”
“And he said true; and he might have said that others made a stepping-stone of me, and left me to my fate when they passed over me!”
The door opened at this moment, and the bland butler announced that the “Gentleman’s supper was served.”
“Come in here, Mr. O’Rorke, when you have finished, and Til give you a cigar. I want to hear more about the snipe shooting,” said Ladarelle, carelessly; and, without noticing the other’s leave-takings, he returned to his easy-chair and his musings.
“I wonder which of the two is best to deal with,” muttered O’Rorke to himself, and on this text he speculated as he ate his meal. It was a very grand moment of his existence certainly: he was served on silver, fed by a French cook, and waited on by two servants—one being the black-coated gentleman, whose duty seemed to be in anticipating Mr. O’Rorke’s desires for food or drink, and whose marvellous instincts were never mistaken. “Port, always port,” said he, holding up his glass. “It is the wine that I generally drink at home.”
