"I hope," said the ancient lady, now wreathed in smiles, "I hope that Mr. O'Hara's cordial is not really stronger than Madeira wine—which my physician, that charming Sir George, says is all I ought to drink."
"Madeira?" cried Mr. O'Hara, "Madeira wine is a very fair drink ... it is a fine stirring dhrink. But 'tis apt, I'm afraid, to heat the blood overmuch. Now Claret," he went on, pursuing the thesis, "Claret's the wine for gentlemen—only for the divil of a way it has of lying cold upon the stomach ... after four or five bottles.... Do I hear you say: 'Port,' over there, Tom, me boy? I'll not deny but that Port has qualities. It's strong, it's mellow—but it's heavy. It sends a fellow to sleep, and that's a tirrible bad mark against it; for 'tis near as bad for a man to sleep when he has a bottle going, as when he has a lady coming. Then there's Champagne for you: there's exhilaration in Champagne, 'tis the real tipple for a gentleman when he's alone—in a tête-à-tête—but 'tis not the wine for great company. Now, my dear friends," said O'Hara, stirring his new brew with the touch of a past master, "if you want to know a wine that combines the fire of the Madeira with the elegance of the Claret, the power and mellowness of the Port with the exhilaration of the Champagne—there's nothing in the world can compare to a fine screeching bowl of Brandy Punch!"
SCENE XXIV
When Mistress Kitty had sipped half a glass with great show of relish and rakishness, and Lady Standish, under protest, had sucked a few spoonfuls; when Lady Maria, stuck in the middle of her fourth helping, protested that she really could not finish the tumbler and forthwith began to show signs of incoherence and somnolence; when O'Hara broke into snatches of song, and Lord Verney began to make calf's eyes afresh at the lost Mistress Kitty; when Sir Jasper, hanging round his wife's chair, showed unequivocal signs of repentance and a longing for reconciliation: when Stafford himself became more pointed in his admiration of Mistress Kitty and a trifle broader in his jests than was quite consistent with his usual breeding, the little widow deemed it, at last, time to break up the party.
There was a vast bustle, a prodigious ordering and counter-ordering.
"Never mind me," whispered Stafford, ever full of good humour and tact, into Sir Jasper's ear, "take your wife home, man, I'll sleep here if needs be."
"Not a foot," asserted O'Hara, apparently quite sober, and speaking with the most pleasant deliberation in the world, "not a foot will I stir from this place, so long as there is a lemon left."
"The cursed scoundrel," cried Lord Verney, babbling with fury as he returned from the stables, "the scoundrel, Spicer, has driven off with my curricle!"
"Then shall we be a merry trio to drink daylight in," said Stafford, and cheered.