“Then, pray go back; she'll be quite well presently,” rejoined Martha, who already, from the contents of a reticule like a carpet-bag, had metamorphosed the fair Zoe's appearance into all the semblance of a patient.
“It's wonderful; it beats Banagher!” muttered Peter, as he returned to the Saal, and resumed his place at the table. The company had already taken their departure, and except Purvis and the General, only a few stragglers remained behind.
“Does she often get them?” asked Peter of Purvis.
“Only when her fee-fee-feelings are worked upon; she's so se-sensitive!”
“Too tender a heart,” sighed Peter, as he filled his glass, and sighed over an infirmity that he thought he well knew all the miseries of. “And her name, if I might make bould?”
“Ricketts,——Mrs. Montague Ricketts. This is Ge-Ge-General Ricketts.” At these words the old man looked op, smiled blandly, and lifted his glass to his lips.
“Your good health, and many happy returns to yoo,” said Peter, in reply to the courtesy. “Ricketts,——Ricketts. Well, I 'm sure I heard the name before.”
“In the D-D-Duke's despatches you may have seen it.” “No, no, no. I never read one of them. I heard it here in Baden. Wait, now, and I'll remember how.” Neither the effort at recollection nor the aid of a bumper seemed satisfactory, for Dalton sat musingly for several minutes together. “Well, I thought I knew the name,” exclaimed he, at last, with a deep sigh of discomfiture; “'t is runnin' in my head yet; something about chilblains,——chilblains.”