“Ma foi!” broke in my mother, half impatiently, in her imperfect language. “If dey are of la bonne société, what will you have more?”
“Of course,” assented Rutledge. “The names we are all familiar with,—the good houses of the country.” Carelessly as he spoke, he contrived to dart a quick glance towards my mother; but, to his astonishment, she showed no sign of discomfort or uneasiness.
“Egad! I think it somewhat hard that a man's company should not be of his own choosing!” said MacNaghten, half angrily. “Do you think his Grace would order the dinner away if there happened to be a dish at table he didn't like?”
“Not exactly, if he were not compelled to eat of it,” said Rutledge, good-humoredly; “but I 'm sure, all this time, that we 're only amusing ourselves fighting shadows. Just tell me who are coming, and I 'll be able to give you a hint if any of them should be personally displeasing to his Grace.”
“You remember them all, Dan,” said my father; “try and repeat the names.”
“Shall we keep the lump of sugar for the last,” said Dan, “as they do with children when they give them medicine? or shall we begin with your own friends, Rut-ledge? for we've got Archdall, and Billy Burton, and Freke, and Barty Hoare, and some others of the same stamp,—fellows that I call very bad company, but that I'm well aware you Castle folk expect to see everywhere you go!”
“But you've done things admirably,” cried Rutledge. “These are exactly the men for us. Have you Townsend?”
“Ay, and his flapper, Tisdall; for without Joe he never remembers what story to tell next. And then there's Jack Preston! Egad! you 'll fancy yourselves on the Treasury benches.”
“Well, now for the Opposition,” said Rutledge, gayly.
“To begin: Grattan can't come,—a sick child, the measles, or something or other wrong in the nursery, which he thinks of more consequence than 'all your houses;' Ponsonby won't come,—he votes you all very dull company; Hugh O'Donnell is of the same mind, and adds that he 'd rather see Tom Thumb, in Fishamble Street, than all your court tomfooleries twice over. But then we've old Bob Ffrench,—Bitter Bob; Joe Curtis—”