"Which is philosophy, yer honor—for could wather never warmed any man yet—me respects to the young lady"—here he looked deep into his glass, adding slowly, and as if there was credit to him in the recollection, "Oi was priest's boy in Tipperary, bedad"—and he drank the half of a stiff glass at a draught.
"Do you find this good weather in the Channel?" I inquired suddenly, looking hard at him over the table.
He made circles with his glass, and turned his eyes upon Mary, before he answered; and when he did, his voice died away like the fall of a gale which is tired. "Noice weather, did ye say—by the houly saints, it depends."
"On what?" I asked, driving the question home.
"On yer company," said he, returning my gaze, "and yer sowl."
"That's curious!"
"Yes, if ye have one to lose, and put anny price on it."
His meaning was too clear.
"Tell your master, with my compliments," I responded, "that I will come another time—I have business in Paris to-day!"
He still looked at me earnestly, and when he spoke again his voice had a fatherly ring. "If I make bold, it's yer honor's forgiveness I ask—but, if it was me that was in Paris I'd stay there," and putting his glass down quickly, he rolled to the door, fingered his hat there for one moment, put it on awry, and with the oft-repeated statement, "Oi was priest's boy in Tipperary, bedad," he swayed out of the room.