“Not late, my Lord, though very near it,” said he, extending his hand. “If I should apologize, however, I have an excuse you will not reject,—Con Heffernan's Burgundy is hard to part with.”
“Very true, Knight,” said his Lordship, smiling. “With a friend one sees so seldom, a little dalliance is most pardonable.”
This sarcasm was met by a ready laugh, for Heffernan was better known as a guest at other tables than a host at his own; nor did he, at whose expense the jest was made, refrain from joining in the mirth, while he added,—
“The Burgundy, like one of your Lordship's bons mots, is perhaps appreciated the more highly because of its rarity.”
“Very true, Heffernan,” replied Lord Drogheda; “we should keep our wit and wine only for our best friends.”
“Faith, then,” whispered the red-whiskered squire who spoke before, “if the liquor does not gain more by keeping than the wit, I'd recommend Con to drink it off a little faster.”
“Or, better still,” interposed the Knight, “only give it to those who understand its flavor. But we are, if I mistake not, losing very valuable time. What say you to the small room off the library, or will your Lordship remain here?”
“Here, if equally agreeable to you. We are both of us too old in the harness to care much for being surrounded by spectators.”
“Is it true, Con,” said a friend in Heffernan's ear, “that Darcy has laid fifty thousand on this party?”
“I believe you are rather under than over the mark,” whispered Heffernan. “The wager has been off and on these last eight or ten years. It was made at Hutchinson's one evening when we all had drunk a good deal of wine. At first, whist was talked of; but Drogheda objected to Darcy's naming Vicars as his partner.”