“My dear!” Andrew answered, and spread out his hand, and waggled his head; “My—please!—I—I don’t know. We all want exercise.”
The man laughed, which was kindly of him, but offensive to Mrs. Cogglesby, who gave Andrew a glance which was full payment for his imbecile pleasantry, and promised more.
With a hospitable inquiry as to the condition of his appetite, and a request that he would be pleased to satisfy it to the full, the man was dismissed: whereat, as one delivered of noxious presences, the Countess rustled into sight. Not noticing Andrew, she lisped to Harriet: “Misfortunes are sometimes no curses! I bless the catarrh that has confined Silva to his chamber, and saved him from a bestial exhibition.”
The two ladies then swept from the room, and left Andrew to perspire at leisure.
Fresh tribulations awaited him when he sat down to dinner. Andrew liked his dinner to be comfortable, good, and in plenty. This may not seem strange. The fact is stated that I may win for him the warm sympathies of the body of his countrymen. He was greeted by a piece of cold boiled neck of mutton and a solitary dish of steaming potatoes. The blank expanse of table-cloth returned his desolate stare.
“Why, what’s the meaning of this?” Andrew brutally exclaimed, as he thumped the table.
The Countess gave a start, and rolled a look as of piteous supplication to spare a lady’s nerves, addressed to a ferocious brigand. Harriet answered: “It means that I will have no butcher’s bills.”
“Butcher’s bills! butcher’s bills!” echoed Andrew; “why, you must have butcher’s bills; why, confound! why, you’ll have a bill for this, won’t you, Harry? eh? of course!”
“There will be no more bills dating from yesterday,” said his wife.
“What! this is paid for, then?”