“No; she's not one of those pale girls we used to ride with at Leamington?”
There was no time for reply, when the names were announced, “Lord and Lady Kilgoff!” and a very weakly looking old man, with a blue inside vest, and enormous diamond studs in his shirt, entered, supporting a very beautiful young woman, whose proud step and glancing eye were strange contrasts to his feeble and vacant expression. The hussars exchanged significant but hasty glances, and fell back, while the others advanced up the room.
“Our excellent hostess,” said my Lord, in a low but distinct voice, “will soon shame Wilton-Crescent itself in late hours. I fancy it 's nigh eight o'clock.”
“It's not their fault, poor things,” said she, lying back in a chair and disposing her magnificent dress into the most becoming folds; “people will come late do what one may.”
“They may do so, that's very true; but I would beg to observe, you need not wait for them.” This was said with a smile towards the hussars, as though to imply, “There is no reason why you should not express an opinion, if it agree with mine.”
The baronet immediately bowed, and smiling, so as to show a very white range of teeth beneath his dark moustache, said, “In part, I agree with your Lordship, but it requires the high hand of fashion to reform the abuse.” Here a most insidious glance at her Ladyship most effectually conveyed the point of his meaning.
Just then, in all the majesty of crimson velvet, Mrs. Kennyfeck appeared, her comely person heaving under the accumulated splendor of lace, flowers, and jewelry. Her daughters, more simply but still handsomely dressed, followed, Mr. Kennyfeck bringing up the rear, in very evident confusion at having torn his kid gloves,—a misfortune which he was not clear should be buried in silence, or made the subject of public apology.
Lady Kilgoff received Mrs. Kennyfeck's excuses for being late with a very quiet, gentle smile; but my Lord, less given to forgiveness, held his watch towards Mr. Kennyfeck, and said, “There 's always an excuse for a man of business, sir, or this would be very reprehensible.” Fortunately for all parties the company now poured in faster; every instant saw some two or three arrive. Indeed, with such speed did they appear, it seemed as if they had all waited for a movement en masse: judges and generals, with nieces and daughters manifold, country gentlemen, cliente, the élite of Dublin diners-out, the Whites, the Rigbys, with their ringleted girls, the young member for Mactark, the Solicitor-General and Mrs. Knivett, and, at last, escorted by his staff of curates and small vicars, came “the Dean” himself, conducting a very learned dissertation on the musical properties of the “Chickgankazoo,”—a three-stringed instrument of an African tribe, and which he professed to think “admirably adapted for country congregations too poor to buy an organ! Any one could play it, Softly could play it, Mrs. Kennyfeck could—”
“How do you do, Mr. Dean?” said that lady, in her sweetest of voices.
The Dean accepted the offered hand, but, without attending to the salutation, went on with a very curious argument respecting the vocal chords in the human throat, which he promised to demonstrate on any thin lady in the company.