"How are you doing, Mr. Curphy, sir?"
"Doing well, sir. Are you doing well yourself, Mr. O'Neill, sir?"
"Lord-a-massy yes, sir. I'm always doing well, sir."
Never had anybody in Ellan seen so strange a mixture of grandeur and country style. My husband seemed to be divided between amused contempt for it, and a sense of being compromised by its pretence. More than once I saw him, with his monocle in his eye, look round at his friend Eastcliff, but he helped himself frequently from a large decanter of brandy and drank healths with everybody.
There were the usual marriage pleasantries, facetious compliments and chaff, in which to my surprise (the solemnity of the service being still upon me) the Bishop permitted himself to join.
I was now very nervous, and yet I kept up a forced gaiety, though my heart was cold and sick. I remember that I had a preternatural power of hearing at the same time nearly every conversation that was going on at the table, and that I joined in nearly all the laughter.
At a more than usually loud burst of wind somebody said it would be a mercy if the storm did not lift the roof off.
"Chut, man!" cried my father. "Solid oak and wrought iron here. None of your mouldy old monuments that have enough to do to keep their tiles on."
"Then nobody," said my husband with a glance at his friend, "need be afraid of losing his head in your house, sir?"
"Not if he's got one to come in with, sir."