“Nay, don't say that, it looks so ill-natured,” sighed Meek; “and there is really nothing in it. You know she and Tom were old friends. Oh dear, it was so sad!”
“Where does Cashel get such execrable champagne?” said an infantryman, with a very wry expression of face.
“It's dry wine, that's all,” said Frobisher, “and about the best ever imported.”
“We 'd be very sorry to drink it at our mess, my Lord, I know that,” said the other, evidently nettled at the correction.
“Yours is the Fifty-third?” said a guardsman.
“No; the Thirty-fifth.”
“Aw! same thing,” sighed he; and he stooped to select a cigar.
“I wish the Kennyfecks were not going,” said Upton, drawing his chair closer to Meek's; “there are so few houses one meets them at.”
“You should speak to Linton about that,” whispered Meek.
“Here's Jim's health,—hip, hip, hurrah!” cried out a white-moustached boy, who had joined a hussar regiment a few weeks before, and was now excessively tipsy.