“And was there one, Daly?” asked young Murphy, a gentleman from whom great things were expected by his college and his creditors.
“There was surely, my boy,” said Daly, “but I've forgot her name. The name's not to the point. I tell you, then, the Siddons stormed in the stateliest blank verse and periods, about how she had elevated the stage—how she had checked Brereton for clasping her as she thought too ardently—how she had family prayers every day, and looked forward to the day when she could afford a private chaplain.”
“Stop there,” shouted Blake. “You'll begin to exaggerate if you go beyond the chaplain, Daly.”
“It's the truth I've told so far, at any rate, barring the chaplain,” said Daly.
“And all because I saw she was a bit nervous and did my best to encourage her and give her confidence by shouting, 'Well done, Sally!'” said Blake. “Boys, it's not Sarah Siddons that has been insulted, it's Trinity College—it's the city of Dublin! by my soul, it's the Irish nation that she has insulted by supposing them capable of insulting a woman.”
“Faith, there 's something in that, Jimmy,” said half a dozen voices.
“Who is this Sarah Siddons, will ye tell me, for I 'd like to know?” resumed Blake, casting a look of almost painful enquiry round the room.
“Ay, that 's the question,” said Daly, in a tone that he invariably reserved for the soliloquy which flourished on the stage a century ago.
“We 're all gentlemen here,” resumed Mr. Blake.
“And that 's more than she is,” said young Blenerhassett of Limerick.