“Oh, yes, I fancy I can tell something of him; for I heard of some one presenting himself, and being refused the entrée, so that Master Frank has lost his money. Sit near us, I pray you, at supper. We must take care of the dear aunt for the niece’s sake, eh?”
Not seeing the force of this reasoning, I soon separated myself from them, and secured a corner at a side-table. Every supper on such an occasion as this is the same scene of solid white muslin, faded flowers, flushed faces, torn gloves, blushes, blanc-mange, cold chicken, jelly, sponge cakes, spooney young gentlemen doing the attentive, and watchful mammas calculating what precise degree of propinquity in the crush is safe or seasonable for their daughters to the mustached and unmarrying lovers beside them. There are always the same set of gratified elders, like the benchers in King’s Inn, marched up to the head of the table, to eat, drink, and be happy, removed from the more profane looks and soft speeches of the younger part of the creation. Then there are the hoi polloi of outcasts, younger sons of younger brothers, tutors, governesses, portionless cousins, and curates, all formed in phalanx round the side-tables, whose primitive habits and simple tastes are evinced by their all eating off the same plate and drinking from nearly the same wine-glass,—too happy if some better-off acquaintance at the long table invites them to “wine,” though the ceremony on their part is limited to the pantomime of drinking. To this miserable tiers etat I belonged, and bore my fate with unconcern; for, alas, my spirits were depressed and my heart heavy. Lucy’s treatment of me was every moment before me, contrasted with her gay and courteous demeanor to all save myself, and I longed for the moment to get away.
Never had I seen her looking so beautiful; her brilliant eyes were lit with pleasure, and her smile was enchantment itself. What would I not have given for one moment’s explanation, as I took my leave forever!—one brief avowal of my unalterable, devoted love; for which I sought not nor expected return, but merely that I might not be forgotten.
Such were my thoughts, when a dialogue quite near me aroused me from my revery. I was not long in detecting the speakers, who, with their backs turned to us, were seated at the great table discussing a very liberal allowance of pigeon-pie, a flask of champagne standing between them.
“Don’t now! don’t I tell ye; it’s little ye know Galway, or ye wouldn’t think to make up to me, squeezing my foot.”
“Upon my soul, you’re an angel, a regular angel. I never saw a woman suit my fancy before.”
“Oh, behave now. Father Magrath says—”
“Who’s he?”
“The priest; no less.”
“Oh, confound him!”