Pinckney’s manner was the manner of a man of the world of thirty, easy-going, assured, and decided.
He shook hands with Phyl as Hennessey introduced them, and then stood with his back to the fireplace talking, as she took her seat in the armchair on the right, whilst the lawyer remained standing, hands in pockets and foot on the left corner of the fender.
The newcomer did most of the talking. By a downward glance every now and then he included Phyl in the conversation, but he addressed most of his remarks to Mr. Hennessey.
“And you came over by the Holyhead route?” said the lawyer.
“I did,” replied Pinckney.
“And what did you think of Kingstown?”
“Well, upon my word, I saw less of it than of a gentleman with long hair and a bundle of newspapers under his arm who received me like a mother just as I landed, hypnotised me into buying half-a-dozen newspapers and started me off for Dublin with his blessing.”
“That was Davy Stevens,” said Phyl, speaking for the first time.
Pinckney’s entrance had produced upon her the same effect as his voice.
You know the feeling that some places produce on the mind when first seen—