“The references not satisfactory, Mr. Nolan,” said the usher, reading from a paper in his hand.
“Not satisfactory?—what do you mean? Is Peter Arkins, Esquire, of Clontarf, unsatisfactory? Is Mr. Ryland, of Abbey Street, unsatisfactory?”
“I am really, sir, unable to afford you the explanation you desire. I am simply deputed by her Ladyship to return the reply that I find written here. The noise is really so great here I can hear nothing. Who are you asking for, Bates?”
“Mr. Mortimer O'Hagan.”
“He's gone away,” cried a voice; “he was here since eleven o'clock.”
“Application refused. Will some one tell Mr. O'Hagan his application is refused?” said the usher, austerely.
“Might I be bold enough to ask what is going forward?” whispered Haire.
“Mr. W. Haire, Ely Place,” shouted out the man in livery. “Card refused for want of a reference.”
“You ought to have sent up two names,—well-known names, Mr. Haire,” said the usher, with a politeness that seemed marked. “It's not too late yet; let me see,” and he looked at his watch, “we want a quarter to one; be back here in half an hour. Take a car,—you 'll find one at the door. Get your names, and I 'll see if I can't do it for you.”
“I am afraid I don't understand you, and I am sure you don't understand me. I came here by appointment—” The rest of the sentence was lost by a considerable bustle and movement that now ensued, for a number of ladies descended the stairs, chatting and laughing freely; while servants rushed hither and thither, calling up carriages, or inquiring for others not yet come. The usher, frantically pushing the crowd aside to clear a path for the ladies, was profuse of apologies for the confusion; adding at the same time that “it was twice as bad an hour ago. There were n't less than two hundred here this morning.”