Cornelius looked round: there was but one chair free, he gave it to me, remained standing himself, and, turning to Mr. Thornton, observed, "I am come, Sir, on the matter I mentioned in my letter of Wednesday last, and which you have not, I dare say, had leisure to answer."
Mr. Thornton did not reply; he sat back in his chair looking at Cornelius from head to foot.
"Sir!" he said, in a tone of incredulous surprise, "you are young—very.
I don't know you."
Cornelius reddened, and stiffly handed his card, which Mr. Thornton negligently dropped.
"I cannot say I have ever heard of Cornelius O'Reilly," he remarked; "but I have been years away. You may be famous for all I know; but, I repeat it, you are very young, Sir."
He spoke with an air of strong and settled conviction.
"I claim no celebrity," drily replied Cornelius, "and my age has nothing to do with my errand. I am come to—" here he stopped short, on perceiving that Mr. Thornton, after casting several longing looks at his beetle, had gradually, like a needle attracted by a potent magnet, been raising the magnifying glass to the level of his right eye, which it no sooner reached, than he made a sudden dart down at the table; but, when the voice of Cornelius ceased, he started, looked up, and said, with a sigh of regret, "You came to have some difficult point settled? Well, Sir, though I have only been three days in England, I do not complain; but you see this fascinating specimen; I beseech you to be brief." He laid down the magnifying glass, and wheeled away his chair from the reach of temptation.
"I am come to give, not to seek, information," quietly answered
Cornelius.
"You bring me a specimen," interrupted Mr. Thornton, his small black eyes kindling. "A Melolo—!"
"A specimen of humanity," interrupted Cornelius,—"a child."