The hall in which we found ourselves, brilliantly lighted and thronged with servants, presented a scene of the most strange confusion and tumult; for, such was the eagerness of the guests to get forward, many persons were separated from their friends: turbaned old ladies called in cracked voices for their sons to rescue them, and desolate daughters seized distractedly the arm nearest them, and implored succour with an accent as agonising as though on the eve of shipwreck. Mothers screamed, fathers swore, footmen laughed, and high above all came the measured tramp of the dancers overhead, while fiddles, French horns, and dulcimers scraped and blew their worst, as if purposely to increase the inextricable and maddening confusion that prevailed.
'Sir Peter and Lady Macfarlane!' screamed the servant at the top of the stairs.
'Counsellor and Mrs. Blake!'
'Captain O'Ryan of the Rifles!'
'Lord Dumboy——-'
'Dunboyne, you villain!'
'Ay, Lord Dunboyne and five ladies!'
Such were the announcements that preceded us as we wended our way slowly on, while I could distinguish Mr. Rooney's voice receiving and welcoming his guests, for which purpose he used a formula, in part derived from the practice of an auction-room.
'Walk in, ladies and gentlemen, walk in. Whist, tea, dancing, negus, and blind-hookey—delighted to see you—walk in'; and so, da capo, only varying the ritual when a lord or a baronet necessitated a change of title.
'You're quite right, O'Grady; I wouldn't have lost this for a great deal,' whispered the duke.