“Thank Heaven,” said I, half aloud, “she isn't mad.”
“Tink, tink, a - tink - a - tink, tink - a - tink - a - dido!” thrummed out her companion. “I say, Saladin, heat me a little porter, with an egg and some sugar.”
The door closed as the imp made his exit, and there was silence for some seconds, during which my uppermost thought was, “What infernal mischance has thrown me into a lunatic asylum?” At length the man spoke,—
“I say, Anna Maria, Cradock has this run of luck a long time.”
“He plays better than you,” responded the lady, sharply.
“I deny it,” rejoined he, angrily. “I play whist better than any man that ever lived, except the Begum of Soutancantantarahad, who beat my father. They played for lacs of rupees on the points, and a territory on the rub; five to two, first game against the loser, in white elephants.”
“How you do talk!” said Anna Maria. “Do you forget that all this rubbish does n't go down with me?”
“Well, I mean old Hickory, that had the snuffshop in Bath, used only to give me one point in the rub, and we played for sixpence; damme, I 'll not forget it,—he cleaned me out in no time. Tink, tink, a-tink-a-tink, tink-a-tinka-dido! Here, Saladin! bear me the spicy cup, ambrosial boy!”