The old lady laughed heartily at the haughty air with which he drew himself up and threw forward his chest as he spoke.
“What a nice parrot you have sent me! but I can't make out what it is he says.”
“He says, 'Don't you wish you may get it?' aunt.”
“Ah! so it is; and he means luncheon, I 'm sure, which is just coming on the table. I hope you are both very hungry?”
“I ought to be, aunt. It's a long drive from the Causeway here.—Hold your tongue, you dog,” whispered he to Tony; “say nothing about the three breakfasts on the road, or I shall be disgraced.”
“And how is your mother, Mr. Tony? I hope she has good health. Give me your arm to the dining-room; Pickle will take care of himself. This is a sickly season. The poor dear Commodore fell ill! and though the weather is so severe, woodcocks very scarce,—there's a step here,—and all so frightened for fear of the scarlatina that they run away; and I really wanted you here to introduce you to—who was it?—not Mrs. Craycroft, was it? Tell Mrs. Trafford luncheon is ready, Groves, and say Mr. Butler is here. She doesn't know you, Pickle. Maybe you don't like to be called Pickle now?”
“Of course I do, aunt; it reminds me of long ago,” said he, with an air of emotion.
“By the way, it was George, and not you, I used to call Pickle,—poor George, that went to Bombay.”
“Ah, yes; he was India Pickle, aunt, and you used to call me Piccalilli!”
“Perhaps I did, but I forget. Here, take the head of the table; Mr. Tony, sit by me. Oh dear! what a small party! This day last week we were twenty-seven! Oh, he 'll not find Alice, for I left her in my flower-garden; I 'll go for her myself.”