“Egad! I 'd as soon be a bachelor,” broke in MacNaghten, “if I only were to look at my wife with an opera-glass across the theatre, or be permitted to kiss her kid glove on her birthday.”
“What he say,—why you laugh?” cried my mother, who could not follow the rapidity of his utterance.
“Mr. MacNaghten prefers homeliness to refinement,” said Polly.
“Oui, you are right, my dear,” added my mother; “it is more refined. And then, instead of all that 'tracasserie' you have about your house, and your servants, and the thousand little 'inconvenance de ménage,' you have one whom you consult on your toilette, your equipage, your 'coiffure,'—in fact, in all affairs of good taste. Voilà Walter, par exemple: he never dérange me for a moment,—I hope I never ennuyé him.”
“Quite right,—perfectly right,” said Polly, with a well-assumed gravity.
“By Jove, that's only single harness work, after all,” said MacNaghten; “I'd rather risk a kick, now and then, and have another beside me to tug at this same burden of daily life.”
“I no understand you, you speak so fast. How droll you are, you Irish! See there, the Lord Duke and my husband, how they shake hands as if they did not meet before, and they walk together for the last half-hour.”
“A most cordial embrace, indeed,” said Polly, fixing her eyes on Rutledge, who seemed far from being at ease under the inspection, while MacNaghten, giving one hasty glance through the window, snatched up his hat and left the room. He passed rapidly down the stairs, crossed the hall, and was just leaving the house when my father met him.
“The very man I wanted, Dan,” cried he; “come to my room with me for a few minutes.”
As they entered the room, my father turned the key in the door, and said,—