The look of his face, the very accent in which he spoke, were so unaffectedly honest and sincere that the youth saw at once how unconsciously his rude speech had escaped him, and that not a trace of it remained in his memory.
“I have been so anxious to see you, Charley,” said he, in his usual tone, “for some days back. I wanted to consult you about O'Shea. My uncle has given me an appointment for him, and I can't find out where he is. Then there 's another thing; that strange Yankee, Quackinboss,—you remember him at Marlia, long ago. He found out, by some means, that I was at the hotel here, and he writes to beg I 'll engage I can't say how many rooms for himself and some friends who are to arrive this evening. I don't think you are listening to me, are you?”
“Yes, I hear you,—go on.”
“I mean to clear out of the diggin's if these Yankees come, and you must tell me where to go. I don't dislike the 'Kernal,' but his following would be awful, eh?”
“Yes, quite so.”
“What do you mean by 'Yes'? Is it that you agree with me, or that you haven't paid the slightest attention to one word I've said?”
“Look here, Agincourt,” said Charley, passing his arm inside the other's, and leading him up and down the room. “I wish I had not changed my mind; I wish I had gone to India. I have utterly failed in all that I hoped to have done here, and I have made my poor father more unhappy than ever.”
“Is he so determined to marry this widow, then?”
“She is gone. She left us more than a week ago, without saying why or for whither. I have not the slightest clew to her conduct, nor can I guess where she is.”
“When was it she left this?”