"No. Joseph: the sly one you know," says Ryde chuckling over some recollection.
"Well, it never occurred to me that Joseph's part might be termed a funny one," says Mr. Kelly, mildly; "but that shows how ignorant all we Irish are. It will be very kind of you, Cobbett, to enlighten us,—to show us something good, in fact."
"Really, you know, you flatter me absurdly," says Cobbett, the self-depreciation fainter, the smirk broader.
Lord Rossmoyne, whose good temper is not his strong point, glances angrily at him, smothers an explosive speech, and walks away with a sneer.
"And Sir Peter,—who will kindly undertake Sir Peter?" asks Olga, with a smile that is faintly sarcastic. "Will you, Owen?" to Mr. Kelly.
"Don't ask me. I could not act with Cobbett and Miss Fitzgerald. I mean, I should only disgrace them," says Kelly, who is a member of a famous dramatic club in Dublin, and who has had two offers from London managers to tread the boards. "I feel I'm not up to it, indeed."
"I suspect you are not," says Hermia Herrick, with a sudden smile that lights up all her cold impassive face. Kelly, catching it, crawls lazily over to her, along the grass, Indian fashion, and finding a fold of her gown lays his arm on it, and his head on his arm, and relapses into silence.
"Ryde has done it," says Captain Cobbett.
"Indeed!" says Olga, raising questioning eyes to the big marine standing behind Monica's chair.
"Ye—es. We—er—do a good deal of that sort of thing in our country," says Ryde, with conscious worth. "I have done Sir Peter once or twice; and people have been good enough not to—" with a little laugh—"hiss me. I have a style of my own; but—er——" with an encouraging glance at the other men, "I daresay there are many here who could do it as I do it."