“That is what I mean,” replied he, bowing.
“Then you have done it already,” said I, rising. “I ask for no more than the frank and manly readiness with which you acknowledge that poverty is no disqualification to the assertion of an honorable pride, and that the feeling of a gentleman may still throb in the heart of a ragged man.”
“You are surely not going to leave me this way,” said he, catching my hand in both his own. “You'll tell me who you are,—you 'll let me know at least something of you.”
“Not now, at all events,” said I. “I'm not in a mood to encounter more at present. Good night. Before I leave you, however, I owe it, as some return for your hospitality, to say that I shall not hazard your credit with your Prince,—I do not mean to accept his invitation. You must find the fitting apology, for I shall leave England to-morrow, in all likelihood for years,—at all events, for a period long enough to make this incident forgotten. Good-bye.”
“By Jove! I 'll never forgive myself if we part in this fashion,” said O'Kelly. “Do—as a proof of some regard, or at least of some consideration for me—do tell me your real name.”
“Carew,” said I, calmly.
“No, no; that was but a jest. I ask in all earnestness and sincerity; tell me your name.”
“Jasper Carew,” said I, again; and before he could collect himself to reply, I had reached the door, and, with a last “good-night,” I passed out, and left him.
I could not bring myself to return to my miserable lodging again. I felt as if a new phase of life had opened on me, and that it would be an act of meanness to revert to the scenes of my former obscurity. I entered a hotel, and ordered a room. My appearance and dress at once exacted every respect and attention. A handsome chamber was immediately prepared for me; and just as day was breaking, I fell off into a deep sleep which lasted till late in the afternoon.