“I most seriously wish I could,” said the physician, exchanging cards, “but I leave by the Asia on Friday.”
“Not a bit of it. Hi, Dick! Dick! I say,” calling to a fat, jovial-faced, red-nosed elderly gentleman who had just emerged from the shanty. “Here’s a friend of Dan Joyce’s, of New York, who says he’s going to leave by the Asia on Friday. Will that fit?”
“I should say not,” said the other, approaching.
Where had Bertram Martin seen that face?
“Any friend of Dan Joyce’s is our friend, and shame be upon us if we let you leave Ireland without at least giving us the opportunity of having a gossip and a bottle over Dan.”
Where had Bertram Martin seen that face?
In a few words, even while this perplexing thought was whirling through his brain, Bertie informed the new-comer—for O’Hara had disappeared into the shanty in search of the ladies with his news—of his doings since he landed at Liverpool.
“At what time were you in Paris?” asked the stranger.
“On the opening day of the Exhibition,” replied the doctor with a deep sigh, as his thoughts flew back to the lovely girl he was destined never, oh! never, to behold again.
“I was in Paris on that day,” said the stranger.