"A fair evening this, sir," said he, "and just cool enough to make a brisk ride pleasant."
O'Connor assented drily, and without waiting for a renewal of the conversation, spurred his horse into a canter, with the intention of leaving his new companion behind. That personage was not, however, so easily to be shaken off; he, in turn, put his horse to precisely the same pace, and remarked composedly,—
"I see, sir, you wish to make the most of the light we've left us; dark riding, they say, is dangerous riding hereabout. I suppose you ride for the city?"
O'Connor made no answer.
"I presume you make Dublin your halting-place?" repeated the man.
"You are at liberty, sir," replied O'Connor, somewhat sharply, "to presume what you please; I have good reasons, however, for not caring to bandy words with strangers. Where I rest for the night cannot concern anybody but myself."
"No offence, sir—no offence meant," replied the man, in the same even tone, "and I hope none taken."
A silence of some minutes ensued, during which O'Connor suddenly slackened his horse's pace to a walk. The stranger made a corresponding alteration in that of his.
"Your pace, sir, is mine," observed the stranger. "We may as well breathe our beasts a little."
Another pause followed, which was at length broken by the stranger's observing,—