“He used to be a pet of yours, mamma,” insinuated Olivia.
“So he was till he became so intimate with those atrocious Fothergills.”
“Who is he?” said Cashel.
“He's a son of Sir George Linton.”
“That's one story, mamma; but as nobody ever saw the aforesaid Sir George, the presumption is it may be incorrect. The last version is that he was found, like Moses, the discoverer being Lady Harriet Dropmore, who, with a humanity never to be forgotten,”—“or forgiven,” whispered Olivia, “for she has been often taunted with it,”—“took care of the creature, and had it reared,—nay, better again, she sent it to Rugby and to Cambridge, got it into Parliament for Elmwood, and has now made it Master of the Horse in Ireland.”
“He is the most sarcastic person I ever met.”
“It is such an easy talent,” said Miss Kennyfeck; “the worst of wine makes capital vinegar.”
“Then here follow a set of soldier people,” said Olivia,—“hussars and Queen's Bays, and a Captain Tanker of the Royal Navy,—oh, I remember, he has but one arm,—and then the Pelertons and the Cuffes.”
“Well, are we at the end of our muster-roll?”
“Yes, we have nearly reached the dregs of the cup. I see Mr. Knox Softly, and the Townleys!”