He left the room and Phyl, rising from the hearthrug, stood with her hand on the mantelpiece listening.

Hennessey had left the door open and she could hear a confused noise from the hall, the sound of luggage being brought in, the bustle of servants and a murmur of voices.

Then a voice that made her start.

“Thanks, I can carry it myself.”

It was the newcomer’s voice, he was being conducted to his room by Hennessey. It was a cheerful, youthful voice, not in the least suggestive of Uncle Sam with the goatee beard as depicted by the unimaginative artist of Punch. And it was a voice she had heard before, so she fancied, but where, she could not possibly tell—nor did she bother to think, dismissing the idea as a fancy.

She stood listening, but heard nothing more, only the wind that had risen and was shaking the ivy outside the windows.

Byrne, the old manservant, came in and lit the lamps and then after a few minutes Hennessey entered. He looked cheerful.

“He seems all right and he’ll be down in a minute,” said the lawyer; “not a bit of harm in him, though I haven’t had time to tackle him over money affairs.”

“How old is he?” asked the girl.

“Old! Why, he’s only a boy, but he’s got all a man’s ways with him—he’s American, they’re like that. I’ve heard say the American children order their own mothers and fathers about and drive their own motor-cars and gamble on the Stock Exchange.” He pulled out his watch and looked at it; it pointed to ten minutes past seven; then he lit a cigar and sat smoking and smoking without a word whilst Phyl sat thinking and staring at the fire. They were seated like this when the door opened and Byrne shewed in Mr. Pinckney.

Hennessey had called him a boy. He was not that. He was twenty-two years of age, yet he looked only twenty and you would not have been particularly surprised if you had been told that he was only nineteen. Good-looking, well-groomed and well-dressed, he made a pleasant picture, and as he came across the room to greet Phyl he explained without speaking what Mr. Hennessey meant about “all the manners of a man.”

Pinckney’s manner was the manner of a man of the world of thirty, easy-going, assured, and decided.

He shook hands with Phyl as Hennessey introduced them, and then stood with his back to the fireplace talking, as she took her seat in the armchair on the right, whilst the lawyer remained standing, hands in pockets and foot on the left corner of the fender.

The newcomer did most of the talking. By a downward glance every now and then he included Phyl in the conversation, but he addressed most of his remarks to Mr. Hennessey.

“And you came over by the Holyhead route?” said the lawyer.

“I did,” replied Pinckney.

“And what did you think of Kingstown?”

“Well, upon my word, I saw less of it than of a gentleman with long hair and a bundle of newspapers under his arm who received me like a mother just as I landed, hypnotised me into buying half-a-dozen newspapers and started me off for Dublin with his blessing.”

“That was Davy Stevens,” said Phyl, speaking for the first time.

Pinckney’s entrance had produced upon her the same effect as his voice.

You know the feeling that some places produce on the mind when first seen—

It seemed to her that she had known Pinckney and had met him in some place, but when or how she could not possibly remember. The feeling had almost worn off now. It had thrilled her, but the thrill had vanished and the concrete personality of the man was dominating her mind—and not very pleasantly.

There was nothing in his manner or his words to give offence; he was quite pleasant and nice but—but—well, it was almost as though she had met some one whom she had known and liked and who had changed.

The little jump of the heart that his voice caused in her had been followed by a chill. His manner displeased her vaguely. He seemed so assured, so every day, so cold.

It seemed to her that not only did he hold his entertainers at a critical distance, but that he was somehow wanting in respectfulness to herself—Lunatic ideas, for the young man could not possibly have been more cordial towards two utter strangers and as for respectfulness, one does not treat a girl in a pigtail exactly as one treats a full-grown woman.

“Oh, Davy Stevens, was it?” said Pinckney, glancing down at Phyl. “Well, I never knew the meaning of peaceful persuasion till he had sold out his stock on me. Now in the States that man would likely have been President by this—Things grow quicker over there.”

“And what did you think of Dublin?” asked Hennessey.

“Well,” said the young man, “the two things that struck me most about Dublin were the dirt and the want of taxicabs.”

A dead silence followed this remark.

Never tell an Irishman that Dublin is dirty.

Hennessey was dumb, and as for Phyl, she knew now that she hated this man.

“Of course,” went on the other, “it’s a fine old city and I’m not sure that I would alter it or even brush it up. I should think it’s pretty much the same to-day as when Lever wrote of it. It’s a survival of the past, like Nuremberg. All the same, one doesn’t want to live in a survival of the past—does one?”

“I’ve lived there a good many years,” said Hennessey; “and I’ve managed to survive it. It’s not Chicago, of course; it’s just Dublin, and it doesn’t pretend to be anything else.”

“Just so,” said Pinckney. He felt that he had put his foot in it; recalling his own lightly spoken words he felt shocked at his want of tact, and he was casting about for something to say about the sacred city of a friendly nature but not too fulsome, when Byrne opened the door and announced that dinner was served.