“Would a sandwich tempt you, with a glass of champagne?” said Mrs. Paul, with the blandest of smiles.
“I can recommend the lamb, sir,” said a voice behind.
“Begad, I'll vouch for the porter,” said the Major. “I only hope it is a good cosmetic.”
“It is a beautiful thing for the hair,” said Mrs. Rooney, half venturing upon a joke.
“No more on that head, ma'am,” said the little Major, bowing pompously.
By this time, thanks to the assiduous attentions of Bob Dwyer, I was presented with a plate, which, had I been an anaconda instead of an aide-decamp, might have satisfied my appetite. A place was made for me in the carriage; and the faithful Bob, converting the skirt of his principal blue into a glass-cloth, polished a wine-glass for my private use.
“Let me introduce my young friend, Mr. Hinton,” said Mrs. Paul, with a graceful wave of her jewelled hand towards her companion. “Miss Louisa Bellew, only daughter of Sir Simon Bellew, of ———” what the place was I could not well hear, but it sounded confoundedly like Killhiman-smotherum—“a beautiful place in the county Mayo. Bob, is it punch you are giving?”
“Most excellent, I assure you, Mrs. Rooney.”
“And how is the Duke, sir? I hope his Grace enjoys good health. He is a darling of a man.”
By-the-by, it is perfectly absurd the sympathy your third or fourth-rate people feel in the health and habits of those above them in station, pleased as they are to learn the most common-place and worthless trifles concerning them, and happy when, by any chance, some accidental similitude would seem to exist even between their misfortunes.