“I did, then; I saw his eyes fixed effectually on us,—on you particularly. I thought he would have laughed outright when you helped yourself to the entire duck.”
Nickie spoke this with an honest severity, meant to express his discontent with his companion fully as much as with the old butler.
“Well, it was an excellent supper, anyhow,” said M'Dermot, taking the bottle which Nickie pushed towards him somewhat rudely; “and here 's wishing health and happiness and long life to ye, Mr. Anthony. May ye always have as plentiful a board, and better company round it.”
There was a fawning humility in the fellow's manner that seemed to gratify the other, for he nodded a return to the sentiment, and, after a brief pause, said,—“The servants in these grand houses,—and that old fellow, you may remark, was with the Darcys when they were great people,—they give themselves airs to everybody they think below the rank of their master.”
“Faix, they might behave better to you, Mr. Anthony,” said M'Dermot.
“Well, they're run their course now,” said Nickie, not heeding the remark. “Both master and man have had their day. I 've seen more executions on property in the last six months than ever I did in all my life before. Creditors won't wait now as they used to do. No influence now to make gaugers and tide-waiters and militia officers; no privilege of Parliament to save them from arrest!”
“My blessings on them for that, anyhow,” said M'Dermot, finishing his glass. “The Union 's a fine thing.”
“The fellows that got the bribes—and, to be sure, there was plenty of money going—won't stay to spend it in Ireland; devil a one will remain here, but those that are run out and ruined.”
“Bad luck to it for a Bill!” said M'Dermot, who felt obliged to sacrifice his consistency in his desire to concur with each new sentiment of his chief.
“The very wine we're drinking, maybe, was given for a vote. Pitt knew well how to catch them.”