Nearly a minute elapsed before his abstraction was broken. “What's that?” said he at length. “What were you asking me?”
“You said you were sorry.”
“Oh, ay!” returned the other, interrupting him; “but I didn' mind what I was sayin': 'twas thinkin' o' somethin' else I was—of home, Bartle, an' what we're brought to; but the best way's to dhrop all discoorse about that forever.”
“You'll be my friend if you do,” said Connor.
“I will, then,” replied Bartle; “we'll change it. Connor, were you ever in love?”
O'Donovan turned quickly about, and, with a keen glance at Bartle, replied,
“Why, I don't know; I believe I might, once or so.”
“I am,” said Flanagan, bitterly; “I am Connor.”
“An' who's the happy crature, will you tell us?”
“No,” returned the other; “but if there's a wish that I'd make against my worst enemy, 'twould be, that he might love a girl above his means; or if he was her aquil, or even near her aquil, that he might be brought”——he paused, but immediately proceeded, “Well, no matter, I am, indeed, Connor.”