“Yes, Master Tom,” said the butler; “you never tasted anything since Tuesday night.”
“Do, sir, av ye plaze!” said the pretty housemaid, as she stood before me, cup in hand.
“Arrah! what's tay?” said Darby, in a contemptuous tone of voice. “A few dirty laves, with a drop of water on top of them, that has neither beatification nor invigoration. Here 's the fons animi!” said he, patting the whisky bottle affectionately. “Did ye ever hear of the ancients indulging in tay? D'ye think Polyphamus and Jupither took tay?”
The cook looked down abashed and ashamed.
“Tay's good enough for women,—no offence, Mrs. Cook!—but you might boil down Paykin, and it'd never be potteen. Ex quo vis ligno non fit Mercurius,—'You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.' That's the meaning of it; ligno 's a sow.”
Heaven knows I was in no mirthful mood at that moment; but I burst into a fit of laughing at this, in which, from a sense of politeness, the party all joined.
“That's it, acushla!” said the old cook, as her eyes sparkled with delight; “sure it makes my heart light to see you smilin' again. Maybe Darby would raise a tune now, and there 's nothing equal to it for the spirits.”
“Yes, Mr. M'Keown,” said the housemaid; “play 'Kiss me twice!' Master Tom likes it.”
“Devil a doubt he does!” replied Darby, so maliciously as to make poor Kitty blush a deep scarlet; “and no shame to him! But you see my fingers is cut. Master Tom, and I can't perform the reduplicating intonations with proper effect.”
“How did that happen. Darby?” said the butler.