"Gipsy! oh, Gipsy, my dear!" chanted the ladies Gower and Oranmore, in a horrified duet.
"You—you—you—little, yellow abomination you! You—you—skinny——"
"Squire Erliston," said Gipsy, drawing herself up with stately dignity, "let me remind you, you are getting to be personal. How would you like it if I called you—you—you red-faced old fright—you—you—you gouty-legged——"
"There! there! that'll do," hastily interrupted the squire, while a universal shout of laughter went round the table at the ludicrous manner in which the little imp mimicked his blustering tone. "There, there! don't say a word about it; but mind, if you dare to go to Dr. Wiseman's, you'll rue it. Mind that."
"All right, sir; let me help you to another roll," said Gipsy, with her sweetest smile, as she passed the plate to the old man, who looked, not only daggers, but bowie-knives at the very least.
CHAPTER IX.
A STORM AT MOUNT SUNSET HALL.
"At this Sir Knight grew high in wrath,
And lifting hands and eyes up both,
Three times he smote his stomach stout,
From whence, at length, fierce words broke out."