“How can you expect him to think of thirst when such perfumed billets as that come showering upon him?” said the adjutant, alluding to a rose-colored epistle a servant had placed within my hands.
“Eight miles of a stone-wall country in fifteen minutes,—devil a lie in it!” said O’Shaughnessy, striking the table with, his clinched fist; “show me the man would deny it.”
“Why, my dear fellow—”
“Don’t be dearing me. Is it ‘no’ you’ll be saying me?”
“Listen, now; there’s O’Reilly, there—”
“Where is he?”
“He’s under the table.”
“Well, it’s the same thing. His mother had a fox—bad luck to you, don’t scald me with the jug—his mother had a fox-cover in Shinrohan.”
When O’Shaughnessy had got thus far in his narrative, I had the opportunity of opening my note, which merely contained the following words: “Come to the ball at the Casino, and bring the Cadeau you promised.”
I had scarcely read this over once, when a roar of laughter at something said attracted my attention. I looked up, and perceived Trevyllian’s eyes bent upon me with the fierceness of a tiger; the veins in his forehead were swollen and distorted, and the whole expression of his face betokened rage and passion. Resolved no longer to submit to such evident determination to insult, I was rising from my place at table, when, as if anticipating my intention, he pushed back his chair and left the room. Fearful of attracting attention by immediately following him, I affected to join in the conversation around me, while my temples throbbed, and my hands tingled with impatience to get away.