O'Hara rose, and nearly tripped over Pat, his faithful dog, the last henchman of the clan. He stroked him fondly on the back; and Pat, jumping up, licked his master's hand with his moist red tongue, and then went through a favourite gymnastic exercise—that of pursuing his own tail. When he was tired of this canine form of search for a chimera, he stood still, panting, and yelped and agitated his tail like a fan.
'Biscuits as usual,' said O'Hara to the quadruped. 'By my troth, it would be a great saving to me if you were in love, but you're not. You've the appetite of an ogre.
* * * * * * *
O'Hara and the O'Hoolohan might have been discovered outside the Café de Suède one evening a month afterwards. They were deep in conversation.
'I do not believe in the constancy of woman—you know my reasons; but I do in the necessity of marriage. You know Caroline intimately now. Do you admire her?'
It was O'Hara who spoke.
'Much,' answered O'Hoolohan; 'but some people are prejudiced in favour of brunettes.'
'Ah! you mistake me. I referred to disposition, to mind—which, after all, counts more in a union than complexion, or figure, or hair. Can I confide in you?'
'You are not obliged to give your confidence if you mistrust.'
'Then I shall give it. I have spoken to her of marriage. She frankly told me that she felt she could not love, and I as frankly told her that neither could I.'