“Like it?” said O'Grady; “you've a queer taste. What do you think of it, miss?” added he to Augusta, “it's just under your nose.” Furlong thought this rather personal, even from a father.
“I'll try my knife on one,” said Scatterbrain, with a flourish of the oyster-knife, which Furlong thought resembled the preliminary trial of a barber's razor.
Furlong thought this worse than O'Grady; but he hesitated to reply to his chief, and an honourable into the bargain.
In the meantime, Scatterbrain opened an oyster, which Furlong, in his embarrassment and annoyance, did not perceive.
“Cut off the beard,” said O'Grady, “I don't like it.”
This nearly made Furlong speak, but, considering O'Grady's temper and ill-health, he hesitated, till he saw Augusta rubbing her eye, in consequence of a small splinter of the oyster-shell having struck it from Scatterbrain's mismanagement of his knife; but Furlong thought she was crying, and then he could be silent no longer; he went over to where she sat, and with a very affectionate demonstration in his action, said, “Never mind them, dear Gussy—never mind—don't cwy—I love her dear little moustachios, I do.” He gave a gentle pat on the back of the neck as he spoke, and it was returned by an uncommonly smart box on the ear from the young lady, and the whole party looked thunderstruck. “Dear Gussy” cried for spite, and stamped her way out of the room, followed by Furlong.
“Let them go,” said O'Grady; “they'll make it up outside.”
“These oysters are all bad,” said Scatterbrain.
O'Grady began to swear at his disappointment—he had set his heart on oysters. Mrs. O'Grady rang the bell—Andy appeared.
“How dare you bring up such oysters as these?” roared O'Grady.