“Sure; I don't want the receipt!” said Owen hurriedly; “keep it yourself. It isn't mistrusting the word of a gentleman I'd be.”
“Eh, Lucas! blarney! I say, blarney, and no mistake!” cried the Major, half-suffocated with his own drollery.
“By my sowl! it's little blarney I'd give you, av I had ye at the side of Slieve-na-vick,” said Owen; and the look he threw towards him left little doubt of his sincerity.
“Leave the room, sir! leave the room!” said Lucas, with a gesture towards the door.
“Dare I ax you where Mr. Leslie is now, sir?” said Owen, calmly.
“He's in London: No. 18 Belgrave Square.”
“Would yer honour be so kind as to write it on a bit of paper for me?” said Owen, almost obsequiously.
Lucas sat down and wrote the address upon a card, handing it to Owen without a word.
“I humbly ax yer pardon, gentlemen, if I was rude to either of ye,” said Owen, with a bow, as he moved towards the door; “but distress of mind doesn't improve a man's manners, if even he had more nor I have; but if I get the little place yet, and that ye care for a day's sport—”
“Eh, damme, you're not so bad, after all,” said the Major: “I say, Lucas—is he, now?”