Mrs. Casey fled to her bedroom for the purpose of arranging her person in a gorgeous mauve moire-antique all over grease-spots, and Matilda rushed frantically to the drawing-room, in order to be en pose to receive the welcome visitors.
The coachman, who acted also in the capacity of butler, was feverishly hurried from his den at the back of the house, bearing with him a gentle aroma of the stable, and, even while opening the hall-door, was engaged in thrusting his arms into the sleeves of a coat—a perfect suit of mail in buttons.
“Mrs. Casey at home?” asked Mrs. Bowdler.
“I dunno whether the misthris is convaynient, ma’am, but Miss Casey is above in the dhrawin’-room. Won’t yez come in anyhow?” And the man motioned them to ascend with considerable cordiality and welcome.
“Take these cards, please.”
“Well, ma’am, me hands is a thrifle dirty; but av it obliges ye—” and hastily brushing the fingers of his right hand upon the legs of his trowsers, he took the extended pasteboard in as gingerly a manner as if he expected it to explode there and then.
The visitors stood in the hall, and so did Luke Fogarty.
“What am I for to do wud this ma’am?” he asked, eyeing it with a glance full of concern.
“Hand it to Miss Casey,” replied Mrs. Bowdler.
“Oh! that’s it, is it?” And he darted up-stairs with an alarming alacrity.