“Mr. Duffian has no cause to complain of us,” said Harriet.
“Nor does he do so, dearest. Calumny may assail him; you may utterly denude him—”
“Adam!” interposed Andrew, distractedly listening. He did not disturb the Countess’s flow.
“You may vilify and victimize Mr. Duffian, and strip him of the honours of his birth, but, like the Martyrs, he will still continue the perfect nobleman. Stoned, I assure you that Mr. Duffian would preserve his breeding. In character he is exquisite; a polish to defy misfortune.”
“I suppose his table is good?” said Harriet, almost ruffled by the Countess’s lecture.
“Plate,” was remarked in the cold tone of supreme indifference.
“Hem! good wines?” Andrew asked, waking up a little and not wishing to be excluded altogether.
“All is of the very best,” the Countess pursued her eulogy, not looking at him.
“Don’t you think you could—eh, Harry?—manage a pint for me, my dear?” Andrew humbly petitioned. “This cold water—ha! ha! my stomach don’t like cold bathing.”
His wretched joke rebounded from the impenetrable armour of the ladies.