CHAPTER XLVIII. AN UNHAPPY DISCLOSURE
'What!' cried I, as I awoke the next morning, and looked with amazement at the figure which waddled across the room with a hoot in either hand—'what! not Corny Delany, surely?'
'Ugh! that same,' said he, with a cranky croak. 'I don't wonder ye don't know me; hardship's telling on me every day.'
Now really, in vindication of my father's household, in which Sir Corny had been domesticated for the last two months, I must observe that the alteration in his appearance was not exactly such as to justify his remark; on the contrary, he had grown fatter and more ruddy, and looked in far better case than I had ever seen him. His face, however, most perseveringly preserved its habitual sour and crabbed expression, rather increased, than otherwise, by his improved condition.
'So, Corny, you are not comfortable here, I find?'
'Comfortable! The ways of this place would kill the Danes! Nothing but ringing bells from morning till night; carriages drivin' like wind up to the door, and bang, bang away at the rapper; then more ringing to let them out again; and bells for breakfast and for luncheon and the hall dinner; and then the sight of vitals that's wasted—meat and fish and fowl and vegetables without end. Ugh! the Haythins, the Turks! eating and drinking as if the world was all their own.'
'Well, apparently they take good care of you in that respect'
'Devil a bit of care; here it's every man for himself. But I'll give warning on Saturday; sorrow one o' me 'll be kilt for the like of them.'
'You prefer Ireland, then, Corny?'