“I’ve got them. The least bit too large. A thousand thanks.”
“Can you dance in them?”
“I’ll try,” replied Dennis, and judging by the sound, he did try then and there, singing as he twirled,
“Bad luck to this marching,
Pipe-claying and starching,
How neat one must be to be killed by the French!”
But O’Brien’s audible delight and the progress of the song were checked by the lieutenant, who had dressed himself, and was now in the sitting-room.
“O’Brien!”
“Sorr!”
“If Mr. O’Moore is not ready, I must go without him.”
“He’s ready and waiting, sorr,” replied O’Brien.
“Have ye got a pocket-handkerchief, Master Dennis, dear? There’s the flower for your coat. Ye’ll be apt to give it away, maybe; let me use a small pin. Did the master not find ye any gloves? Now av the squire saw ye, its a proud man he’d be! Will I give the young gentleman one of your hats, sorr?”