The young gentleman turned round at this, and took a Tery leisurely survey of the man who contemplated a step of such rare audacity.
“He 's from Ireland, Mr. Darner,” whispered the porter, with a half-kindly impulse to make an apology for such ignorance.
Mr. Darner smiled faintly, and gave a little nod, as though to say that the explanation was sufficient; and again turned towards Tony.
“I take it that you know Sir Harry Elphinstone?” asked he.
“I never saw him; but he knew my father very well, and he 'll remember my name.”
“Knew your father? And in what capacity, may I ask?”
“In what capacity?” repeated Tony, almost fiercely.
“Yes; I mean, as what—on what relations did they stand to each other?”
“As schoolfellows at Westminster, where he fagged to my father; in the Grenadier Guards afterwards, where they served together; and, last of all, as correspondents, which they were for many years.”
“Ah, yes,” sighed the other, as though he had read the whole story, and a very painful story too, of change of fortune and ruined condition. “But still,” continued he, “I 'd scarcely advise your going to Park Lane. He don't like it. None of them like it!”