An admonishing look from Power was his only reply, as he walked towards the door. Bent upon teasing him, however, I continued,—
“My only fear is, he may do something silly.”
“Who? Monsoon, is it?”
“No, no. Not Monsoon; another friend of ours.”
“Faith, I scarcely thought your fears of old Monsoon were called for. He’s a fox—the devil a less.”
“No, no, Dennis. I wasn’t thinking of him. My anxieties were for a most soft-hearted young gentleman,—one Fred Power.”
“Charley, Charley!” said Fred, from the door, where he had been giving directions to his servant about supper. “A man can scarce do a more silly thing than marry in the army; all the disagreeables of married life, with none of its better features.”
“Marry—marry!” shouted O’Shaughnessy, “upon my conscience, it’s incomprehensible to me how a man can be guilty of it. To be sure, I don’t mean to say that there are not circumstances,—such as half-pay, old age, infirmity, the loss of your limbs, and the like; but that, with good health and a small balance at your banker’s, you should be led into such an embarrassment—”
“Men will flirt,” said I, interrupting; “men will press taper fingers, look into bright eyes, and feel their witchery; and although the fair owners be only quizzing them half the time, and amusing themselves the other, and though they be the veriest hackneyed coquettes—”
“Did you ever meet the Dalrymple girls, Dennis?” said Fred, with a look I shall never forget.