“Misther Fenton,” said Paudeen, “there's a daicent person in our house that wishes to see you.”
“Who do you call a decent person, you bog-trotting Ganymede.” replied the other.
“Why, a daicent tradesman, I think, from—thin sorra one of me knows whether I ought to say from Dublin or London.”
“What trade, Ganymede?”
“Troth, that's more than I can tell; but I know that he wants you, for he sent me to bring you to him.”
“Well, Ganymede, I shall see your tradesman,” he replied. “Come, I shall go to him.”
On reaching the inn, Paudeen, in order to discharge the commission intrusted to him fully, ushered Fenton upstairs, and into the stranger's sitting-room. “What's this,” exclaimed Fenton. “Why, you have brought me to the wrong room, you blundering villain. I thought you were conducting me to some worthy tradesman. You have mistaken the room, you blockhead; this is a gentleman. How do you do, sir? I hope you will excuse this intrusion; it is quite unintentional on my part; yet I am glad to see you.”
“There is no mistake at all in it,” replied the other, laughing. “That will do, Paudeen,” he added, “thank you.”
“Faix,” said Paudeen to himself, when descending the stairs, “I'm afeard that's no tradesman—whatever he is. He took on him a look like a lord when that unfortunate Fenton went into the room. Troth, I'm fairly puzzled, at any rate!”
“Take a seat, Mr. Fenton,” said the stranger, handing him a chair, and addressing him in terms of respect.