He was excessively polite—“No man is so polite unless he means mischief,” was the thought which came to Dick when Major O’Teague was announced.
He addressed himself to Mr. Long, having declined, with a longing eye and a reluctant voice, a glass of sherry.
“Sir,” he said, “I come on a delicate mission”—he pronounced the adjective “dilicate,” for even the stress of Fontenoy and a course of Bath waters failed to reduce the heritage of the Irish Brigade—and gave a polite glance in the direction of Dick.
“Mr. Richard Brinsley Sheridan is my friend, sir,” said Mr. Long. “He is in my confidence, so that it is unnecessary for him to retire.”
“Very well, sir,” said the visitor. “I doubt not that Mr. Sheridan is a man of honour: his name, anyway, is illustrious” (pronounced “illusthrious”) “in the roll of fame of Irishmen. I mind that my father, the colonel, said that Owen Roe O’Neil Sheridan was a lieutenant in Clare’s regiment, and a very divil at that.”
“I have no doubt that Mr. Richard Brinsley Sheridan is duly proud of having at least one name in common with the lieutenant, sir,” said Mr. Long.
“And he would have every right, sir, let me tell you,” said Major O’Teague warmly. “My father knew that the boast of the Sheridans was that before the trouble came upon them in Ireland there never had been a wine-glass inside their castle.”
“A family of water-drinkers, sir?” suggested Mr. Long.
“Nothing of the sort, sir; they drank their liquor out of tumblers,” cried Major O’Teague. “Did y’ever hear tell”—the Major had elapsed into the French idiom—“did y’ever hear tell of the answer that Brian Oge O’Brian Sheridan made to the English officer that called at the castle when the colonel’s horse had been stolen, Mr. Sheridan?”