“Well, I must own I don’t think it would be a bad one; that is, I mean it would relieve me of a deal of anxiety, and save me no end of trouble.”
“Just so!” said O’Rorke, who, leaning his head on his hand, addressed his thoughts to the very serious question of how all these things would affect himself. Nor did it take him long to see that from the hour Ladarelle ceased to need him, all their ties were broken, and that the fashionable young gentleman who now sat at table with him in all familiarity would not deem him fit company for his valet.”
“This is the fifth time, Master O’Rorke, you have repeated the words, ‘Just so!’ Will you tell me what they refer to? What is it that is ‘just so?’”
“I was thinking of something!” said O’Rorke.
“And what was it? Let us have the benefit of your profound reflections.”
“Well, then, my profound reflections was telling me that if this girl was to die, your honour wouldn’t be very long about cutting my acquaintance, and that, maybe, this is the last time I’d have the pleasure of saying, ‘Will you pass me the wine?’”
“What are you drinking? This is Madeira,” said Ladarelle, as he pushed the decanter towards him, and affecting to mistake his meaning.
“No, Sir; I’m drinking port wine,” was the curt reply, for he saw the evasion, and resented it.
“As to that other matter—I mean as to ‘cutting you,’ O’Rorke—I don’t see it—don’t see it at all!”
“How do you mean, ‘you don’t see it?’”