‘And now I daresay, William Henry, you would like a talk with your old friend in your own room,’ observed Mr. Erin; ‘you must make Mr. Talbot quite at home here.’
The young gentleman looked as if he would quite as soon have remained in the society of Miss Margaret, who had obviously attracted his admiration, while William Henry could hardly repress a groan. But so broad a hint could scarcely be ignored, and the two young men retreated together accordingly.
‘I hope William Henry is pleased, my dear,’ said the old gentleman, when he found himself alone with his niece. ‘He cannot say that I have not made some little sacrifice. But why had he not been to see this fellow—I gave him leave.’
‘Nay, sir, you did not give him leave implicitly; you said that if he met Mr. Talbot he was to give him your compliments. Willie is always so very particular not to overstep your permission in any way.’
Mr. Erin muttered an articulate sound such as a bumble-bee makes when imprisoned between two panes of glass. It was not exactly ‘hum,’ but it resembled it. William Henry was now all that he could wish him to be, but there had been occasions—though to be sure there was now no need to think of them—when he had not been so very careful to obey the paternal commands.
‘Well, I hope he appreciates my little surprise,’ he murmured; ‘“a man of letters,” forsooth! Never, never, was I so pestered by a popinjay.’