“Good-bye, my son,” said she; “I wish you had let me taste some of that fine dish you made yesterday.”
“How could I, my dear mother? I did not know you were there.”
At this point of the conversation, the Egyptian beauty, her daughter Sarah, entered.
“My dear Sally, how are you?” said I. “I never see you in our alley now.”
“Go along with you!” said smiling Sally; “you are always making fun of me.”
“Fun of you, my dear?—never. I swear by your blue eyes and black hair, that I never do. Do I, mother?”
“If you did, it would not matter; a little innocent mirth now and then does one good. For my part, my son, I could not live without laughing.”
“Yes; but you told a certain colonel that it was I who was dressed as a Scotchman at the French ball given the other day in honour of the young Emperor.”
“What harm is there in that? All the great people were invited, and why should you not have been there?”
“Indeed, do you think mother or myself would go to such a place, where the women wear soldiers’ clothes? Not likely. And what soldiers?—the Scotch Brigade!”