“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.

“Thank, you, sir,” replied the other, putting, at the same time, a certain degree of restraint upon his maimer, for he felt conscious of being slightly influenced by liquor.

“Well,” continued the stranger, “I am glad to see that you have improved your appearance.”

“Ay, certainly, sir, as far as four pounds—­or, I should rather say, three pounds went, I did something for the outer man.”

“Why not the five?” asked the other.  “I wished you to make yourself as comfortable as possible, and did not imagine you could have done it for less.”

“No, sir, not properly, according to the standard of a gentleman; but I assure you, that, if I were in a state of utter and absolute starvation, I would not part with one of the notes you so generously gave me, scarcely to save my life.”

“No!” exclaimed the stranger, with a good deal of surprise.  “And pray, why not, may I ask?”

“Simply,” said Fenton, “because I have taken a fancy for it beyond its value.  I shall retain it as pocket-money.  Like the Vicar of Wakefield’s daughters, I shall always keep it about me; and then, like them also, I will never want money.”

“That is a strange whim,” observed the other, “and rather an unaccountable one, besides.”

“Not in the slightest degree,” replied Fenton, “if you knew as much as I do; but, at all events, just imagine that I am both capricious and eccentric; so don’t be surprised at anything I say or do.”