"Yes, your dressing-room. I wouldn't disturb the children for the Prince of Wales."
Now this was very shabby of my wife. My dressing-room was my sanctum sanctorum. There were my papers, letters, pipes, boots, knick-knacks, all laid out with a bachelor's care, and each in its own particular place. To erect a bedstead meant an utter disturbance of my effects, which weeks could not repair, especially as regards my papers. I expostulated.
"There is no use in talking," said my wife; "the bed is put up."
Tableau.
Whilst my guest was engaged in washing his hands before luncheon, I held a conference with Billy Doyle with reference to the shooting, our line of country, and the tactics necessary to be pursued.
"Me opinion is that he is a gommoch. He doesn't know much. Av he cum down wud an old gun-case that was in the wars, I'd be peckened; but wud sich a ginteel tool, ye needn't fret. We'll give him a walk, anyhow. He'll get a bellyful that will heart scald him."
"But the honour of the country is at stake, Billy. I asked Mr Simpson to shoot, promising him good sport, and surely you are not going to let him return to Dublin to give us a bad name."
This appeal to Billy's feelings was well timed. He knew every fence and every nest in the barony, and it was with a view to putting things into a proper training that I thus appealed to his better feelings.
Billy scratched his head.
"Begorra, he must have a bird if they're in it; but they're desperate wild, and take no ind of decoyin'."