“Isn’t the ginger beer beautiful,” said she, emptying a glass of champagne.
Still I was not to be roused from my trance, and continued my courtship as warmly as ever.
“I suppose you’ll come home now,” said a gruff voice behind Mary Anne.
I turned and perceived Mark Anthony with a grim look of peculiar import.
“Oh, Mark dear, I’m engaged to dance another set with this gentleman.”
“Ye are, are ye?” replied Mark, eyeing me askance. “Troth and I think the gentleman would be better if he went off to his flea-bag himself.”
In my then mystified intellect this west country synonyme for a bed a little puzzled me.
“Yes sir, the lady is engaged to me: have you any thing to say to that?”
“Nothing at present, at all,” said Mark, almost timidly.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” sobbed Mary Anne; “they’re going to fight, and he’ll be killed—I know he will.”