There was a pause after this, and Heathcote found his position painfully awkward. He did not fancy exactly to repudiate the friendship thus assumed, and he certainly did not like to put his name to the bond; and so he walked to the window and looked out with that half-hopeless vacuity bashful men are prone to.
“What's the weather going to do?” said he, carelessly. “More rain?”
“Of course, more rain! Amongst all the humbugs of the day, do you know of one equal to the humbug of the Italian climate? Where's the blue sky they rave about?”
“Not there, certainly,” said Heathcote, laughing, as he looked up at the leaden-colored canopy that lowered above them.
“My father used to say,” said O'Shea, “that it was all a mistake to talk about the damp climate of Ireland; the real grievance was, that when it rained it always rained dirty water!”
The conceit amused Heathcote, and he laughed again.
“There it comes now, and with a will too!” And at the same instant, with a rushing sound like hail, the rain poured down with such intensity as to shut out the hills directly in front of the windows.
“You 're caught this time, Heathcote. Make the best of it, like a man, and resign yourself to eat a mutton-chop here with me at four o'clock; and if it clears in the evening, I 'll canter back with you.”
“No, no, the weather will take up; this is only a shower. They 'll expect me back to dinner, besides. Confound it, how it does come down!”
“Oh, faith!” said O'Shea, half mournfully, “I don't wonder that you are less afraid of the rain than a bad dinner.”