"I am very sorry that I asked him at all, Maria; but as he has been asked, and as I must drive over to meet him in a few minutes, for Heaven's sake make the best of it."
"Oh, of course; I receive my instructions, and am to carry them out. All the trouble falls upon me, while you drive off to the station smoking a shilling cigar, when you know that every penny will be wanted to send Willie to Eton."
I got out of it somehow. Not that Mrs S. was entirely pacified. She still preserved an armed neutrality; yet even this concession was very much to be coveted. She's a dear good little creature, but she has fiery moods occasionally; and I ask you, my dear sir, is she one whit the worse for it? How often does your good lady fly at you during the twenty-four hours? How often! The theme is painful. Passons.
My stained-wood trap was brought round by my man-of-all-work, Billy Doyle. Billy is a tight little "boy," over whose unusually large skull some fifty summers' suns have passed, scorching away his shock hair, and leaving only a few streaks, which he carefully plasters across his bald pate till they resemble so many cracks upon the bottom of an inverted china bowl. Billy is my factotum. He looks after my horse, dogs, gun, rod, pipes, and clothes, with a view to the reversion of the latter. He was reared, "man an' boy," on the estate, and is upon the most familiar yet respectful terms with the whole family. Billy continually lectures me, imparting his opinions upon all matters appertaining to my affairs, as though he were some rich uncle whose will in my favour was safely deposited with the family solicitor.
"We've twenty minutes to meet the train, Billy," I observed, giving the reins a jerk.
"Is it for to ketch the tin-o'clock thrain from Dublin?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Begorra, ye've an hour! She's like yourself—she's always late."
"There's a gentleman coming down to spend the day and shoot," I said, without noticing Billy's sarcasm.
"Shoot! Arrah, shoot what?"