The hint was not lost upon me, and I speedily began to faire l’amiable to my charge; and before we reached the supper room, learned certain particulars of her history, which I have not yet forgot. She was, it seems, sister to a lady then in the room, the wife of an attorney, who rejoiced in the pleasing and classical appellation of Mr. Mark Anthony Fitzpatrick; the aforesaid Mark Anthony being a tall, raw-boned, black-whiskered, ill-looking dog, that from time to time contrived to throw very uncomfortable looking glances at me and Mary Anne, for she was so named, the whole time of supper. After a few minutes, however, I totally forgot him, and, indeed, every thing else, in the fascination of my fair companion. She shared her chair with me, upon which I supported her by my arm passed round the back; we eat our pickled salmon, jelly, blanc mange, cold chicken, ham, and custard; off the same plate, with an occasional squeeze of the finger, as our hands met—her eyes making sad havoc with me all the while, as I poured my tale of love—love, lasting, burning, all-consuming—into her not unwilling ear.
“Ah! now, ye’r not in earnest?”
“Yes, Mary Anne, by all that’s”—
“Well, there now, don’t swear, and take care—sure Mark Anthony is looking.”
“Mark Anthony be—”
“Oh! how passionate you are; I’m sure I never could live easy with you. There, now, give me some sponge cake, and don’t be squeezing me, or they’ll see you.”
“Yes, to my heart, dearest girl.”
“Och, it’s cheese you’re giving me,” said she, with a grimace that nearly cured my passion.
“A cottage, a hut, with you—with you,” said I, in a cadence that I defy Macready to rival—“what is worldly splendour, or the empty glitter of rank.”
I here glanced at my epaulettes, upon which I saw her eyes rivetted.