“What's your name? The captain has not written it clearly.”
“Cregan, my lady,—Con Cregan.”
“Con—Con,” repeated she twice or thrice; “what does Con mean?”
“It's the short for Cornelius, my lady.”
“Ah, the abbreviation for Cornelius! And where have you lived, Cornelius?”
“My last place, my lady, was Sir Miles O'Ryan's, of Roaring Water.”
“What are you doing, you wretch? Take your filthy fingers out of that pot this instant!” screamed she, suddenly.
“Me taste him, an' he be dam hot!” cried the nigger, dancing from one foot to the other, as his mouth was on fire from tasting capsicum pods.
I thought of my own mustard experience, and then, turning a glance of ineffable contempt upon my black friend, said, “Those creatures, my lady, are so ignorant, they really do not know the nature of the commonest condiments.”
“Very true, Cornelius. I would wish, however, to observe to you that although my family are all persons of rank, I have no title myself,—that is to say,” added she, with a pleasing smile, “I do not assume it here; therefore, until we return to England, you need n't address me as ladyship.”