“Your wound I mean, dear?”
“Nicely opened.”
“Only dressed an hour ago?”
“With some mustard, pepper, and vinegar.”
“Indeed, Gusty, if you take my advice—”
“I'd rather have oysters any day.”
O'Grady sat up on the sofa as he spoke and requested his wife to say no more about the matter, but put on his cravat. While she was getting it from his wardrobe, his mind wandered from supper to the pension, which he looked upon as secure now that Scatterbrain was returned; and oyster-banks gave place to the Bank of Ireland, which rose in a pleasing image before O'Grady's imagination. The wife now returned with the cravat, still dreading the result of eating to her husband, and her mind occupied wholly with the thought of supper, while O'Grady was wrapt in visions of a pension.
“You won't take it, Gusty, dear,” said his wife with all the insinuation of manner she could command.
“Won't I, 'faith?” said O'Grady. “Maybe you think I don't want it?”
“Indeed, I don't, dear.”