“And is the wind, and the tide, and everything else as it should be, Mr. Cashel?” said Lady Kilgoff.
“Everything—when you have only uttered your consent,” said he, gallantly.
“What is this, sir?” said my Lord, as, having requested something to drink, Sickleton poured him out a large glassful of scarcely frothing liquid.
“Dry champagne, my Lord. Moot's.”
“And very excellent too. Really, Laura, I am very sorry it should be so late, and we were to have dined with Meek at seven—”
“But only alone—no party, remember that,” said she, persuasively; “how easy to send the carriage back with an apology.”
Cashel looked his thanks, but without speaking.
“Take those red partridges out of ice,” said Sickleton, from the cook's galley, “and let us have those Ostend oysters to-day.”
“I yield,” said my Lord. “Mr. Cashel must take all the consequences of my breach of faith upon himself.”
“I promise to do so, my Lord.”