"Why, of course she has! Here's her—"
"O, never mind, ma'am; all correct, I presume."
The "pipes" and bells soon had the attendance of a gang of white-jacketed, polish-faced Paddies, and the elderly lady was marshalled, double-file, towards the apartments of the Nightingale.
Jenny had but just "turned out," and was "feeding" on the right wing and left breast of a lark, the leg of a canary, "a dozen fried" humming bird eggs—her customary fodder of a morning.
The servants passed the countersigns, and the elderly lady was admitted—the Nightingale, without disturbing the ample folds of her camel's hair dressing-gown—a present from the Sultan of all the Turkies, cost $3,000—motioned the matron to squat, and as soon as she got her throat in talking order, said—
"Goot mornins."
"How do you do?" responds the old lady.
"Pooty well, tank'ees. You have some breakest? No!"
"No, ma'am. I've had my breakfast three hours ago."
"Yes? indeed! you rise up early, eh?—Well, it is goot for ze hels, eh?"