Uncle Gab. Pooh!—if your Lordship will excuse the remark—this won't do you any harm—comes out of my own cellar, so I ought to know. (To Seakale.) Here, you, fill his Lordship's glass, d'ye hear?
Mrs. Tid. (in a rapid whisper.) Don't make a fuss—you can take one glass as he wishes it!
Lord Strath. (to himself.) Can I though? If she imagines I'm going to poison myself to please her uncle! (Seakale gives him half a glass, after receiving a signal from Mrs. T.) I suppose I must just——(After tasting.) Why it's dry! Then why the deuce was I cautioned not to——?
Uncle Gab. That's a fine wine, isn't it, my Lord? Not much of that in the market nowadays, I can tell you!
Lord Strath. (to himself.) Precious little here. (Aloud.) So I should imagine, Sir.
Uncle Gab. Your Lordship mustn't pass this entrée. My niece's cook knows her business, I will say that for her.
Lord Strath. (as he helps himself.) I have already discovered that she is an artist.
Mrs. Tid. (in displeased surprise.) Then you know my cook too? An artist? and she seems such a respectable person! Pray what sort of pictures does she paint?
Lord Strath. Pictures? Oh, really I don't know—potboilers probably.