A shade passed over the old man's face. 'Ah! I know nothing of her. She was her father's daughter, not her mother's. She preferred the noisy wine-shop to my quiet home, and three years ago she disappeared from our sight altogether. But the night waxes late. I must be going. So you haven't seen your friend since?' 'No, and I have anxiously desired to see him, to clear off some obligations I am under to him.' 'Well, again good-night. I pray you don't be such a stranger as he; but sometimes call up to Victor Chauvin's humble quarters. It gladdens his spirit to converse with youth.' O'Hara gave assurance that he would esteem it a happiness and an honour to visit one with whom he had so many kindred sympathies. 'It grows late' said the officer, 'and my pair of pretty birds will be anxiously looking out for me if I delay. Good-night, my child, good-night.' And as O'Hara escorted Captain Chauvin to the door, Pat accompanied them, but only with a valedictory bark. The truth is he was too well fed, and he was not used to it. With dogs, as with men, high feeding begets indolence, and the indolent are not over-polite. CHAPTER VII. FRIEZECOAT AT HOME. The morning after Captain Chauvin had admitted the young Irishman into his confidences was wet and gloomy. At half-past ten a.m. O'Hara was seated in front of his dressing-table engaged in an unpleasant operation entailed by the usages of modern society, that of shaving himself. He wore moustaches and mouche, but fashion in the French capital necessitated the removal of the whiskers, and, razor in hand, skimming over a surface of lathered skin, he peered into the toilet-glass, when a loud tap resounded on the panel of the door. Before he had time to make answer the lock was turned, the door thrown open, and the applicant for admittance had entered with heavy step. O'Hara turned round and stared at him. It was the very man whom he had been wishing to see, the stranger, whose name was not Beelzebub, clad in the same long frieze coat, the skirts of which were met by spatterdashes, which totally shut out his trousers from view. His boots were covered with mud, his face perspiring from exercise; he took off his hat and sat down abruptly by the table, on which a pile of loose journals, letters, and other literary matter was strewn. 'Welcome,' said the interrupted shaver with cheerfulness (although he had gashed his jaw), advancing towards his visitor. 'Stay where you are, Mr. Manus O'Hara, and finish your shaving. Passing by this way--thought I'd call in to see you.' O'Hara regarded him with a broad stare of wonderment. How had this stranger found out his name and lodging? His looks must have conveyed the questions. 'How do I know your name and where to find you? you would ask,' said the stranger. 'Spiritual clairvoyance. Shave yourself.' O'Hara smiled, said nothing, but determined to deal with the humorist in his own coin, and resumed his position before the glass.