“Ha, ha!” cried the other, trying to laugh at the joke, which he felt too deeply; “I thought I knew the pony, though. Old three-and-fourpence; his infernal canter always sounds in my ears like the jargon of a bill of costs.”
“Here comes Corny,” said O'Grady. “What have you got there?”
“There, 'tis for you,” replied he, throwing, with an air of the most profound disdain, a large card upon the table; while, as he left the room, he muttered some very sagacious reflections about the horrors of low company—his father the Jidge—the best in the land—riotous, disorderly life; the whole concluding with an imprecation upon heathens and Turks, with which he managed to accomplish his exit.
“Capital, by Jove!” said Lord Dudley, as he surveyed the card with his glass.
“'Mr. and Mrs. Paul Rooney presents'—the devil they does—'presents their compliments, and requests the honour of Captain O'Grady's company at dinner on Friday, the 8th, at half-past seven o'clock.'”
“How good! glorious, by Jove! eh, O'Grady? You are a sure ticket there—l'ami de la maison!”
O'Grady's cheek became red at these words; and a flashing expression in his eyes told how deeply he felt them. He turned sharply round, his lip quivering with passion; then, checking himself suddenly, he burst into an affected laugh,
“You'll go too, wont you?”
“I? No, faith, they caught me once; but then the fact was, a protest and an invitation were both served on me together. I couldn't accept one, so I did the other.”
“Well, I must confess,” said O'Grady, in a firm, resolute tone, “there may be many more fashionable people than our friends; but I, for one, scruple not to say I have received many kindnesses from them, and am deeply, sincerely grateful.”