When the interval had been so far prolonged that Kearney himself saw the necessity to do something, he placed his napkin on the table, leaned forward with a half-motion of rising, and, addressing Miss Betty, said, ‘Shall we adjourn to the drawing-room and take our coffee?’
‘I’d rather stay where I am, Mathew Kearney, and have that glass of port you offered me a while ago, for the beer was flat. Not that I’ll detain the young people, nor keep yourself away from them very long.’
When the two girls withdrew, Nina’s look of insolent triumph at Kate betrayed the tone she was soon to take in treating of the old lady’s good manners.
‘You had a very sorry dinner, Miss Betty, but I can promise you an honest glass of wine,’ said Kearney, filling her glass.
‘It’s very nice,’ said she, sipping it, ‘though, maybe, like myself, it’s just a trifle too old.’
‘A good fault, Miss Betty, a good fault.’
‘For the wine, perhaps,’ said she dryly, ‘but maybe it would taste better if I had not bought it so dearly.’
‘I don’t think I understand you.’
‘I was about to say that I have forfeited that young lady’s esteem by the way I obtained it. She’ll never forgive me, instead of retiring for my coffee, sitting here like a man—and a man of that old hard-drinking school, Mathew, that has brought all the ruin on Ireland.’
‘Here’s to their memory, anyway,’ said Kearney, drinking off his glass.