And thus they sipped, and smoked, and said little to each other, and the hours stole over, and the wintry day darkened apace, and, at last, out of a drowsy nap over the fire, the waiter awoke them, to say dinner was on the table.
“You were asleep!” said O'Shea, to his companion.
“Yes, 'twas your snoring set me off!” replied Heathcote, stretching himself, as he walked to the window. “Raining just as hard as ever!”
“Come along,” said the other, gayly. “Let us see what old Fan has done for us.”
CHAPTER XXI. MR. O'SHEA UPON POLITICS, AND THINGS IN GENERAL
It was a most appetizing little dinner that was now set before the O'Shea and Charles Heathcote. The trout from Castellano and the mutton from Pistoja were each admirable; and a brace of woodcocks, shot in the first snowstorm on the Carrara mountains, were served in a fashion that showed the cook had benefited by English teachings.
“There are worse places than this, after all!” said O'Shea, as he sat at one side of the fire, Heathcote opposite, and a small table liberally covered with decanters between them.
“Wonderful Burgundy this,” said Heathcote, gazing at his glass in the light. “What does he call it?”
“He calls it Lafitte. These fellows think all red wines come from the Bordeaux country. Here it is,—marked seven francs.”