"Stewed eels, sir; sole maître d'hôtel," said the butler, in the usual suppressed and deferential tone.
Rorie helped himself automatically, and went on looking at Vixen.
Her praises of Nip had kindled jealous fires in the breast of Argus, her own particular favourite; and the blunt black muzzle had been thrust vehemently under her velvet sleeve.
"Argus is angry." said Rorie.
"He's a dear old foolish thing to be jealous," answered Vixen, "when he knows I'd go through fire and water for him."
"Or even fight a big boy," cried the Squire, throwing himself back in his chair with the unctuous laughter of a man who is dining well, and knows it.
Vixen blushed rosiest red at the allusion.
"Papa, you oughtn't to say such things," she cried; "I was a little bit of a child then."
"Yes, and flew at a great boy of fourteen and licked him," exclaimed the Squire, rapturously. "You know the story, don't you, Rorie?"
Rorie had heard it twenty times, but looked the picture of ignorant expectancy.