“O mamma!” exclaimed Matilda.
“Now, ye know ye do, darling.” And Mrs. Casey, who is the soul of hospitality, joyously descended to the lower regions, in order to send up the delicacies she so temptingly set forth.
“Are you going to the ball the Twelfth are giving at the Royal Barracks?” asked Mrs. Bowdler.
“I am not, Mrs. Bowdler, but I wish I was,” replied Matilda.
“Colonel, do you hear that? Miss Casey has not received a card for the Twelfth ball. You must take care that she gets one.”
“I’ll go to Major McVickers at once—the old rascal and I served in India together—and see what can be done.”
He had been to Major McVickers five times already to secure invitations for himself and wife, but without success.
Luke Fogarty entered with an enormous silver salver bearing the champagne, jelly, fruit, and cake. He would have preferred to have been behind a runaway horse, ay, and down-hill to boot. He regarded the jelly with a savage eye, muttering “Woa! woa!” in an undertone as it shook from the movement of the tray, accompanying the exclamation by that purring sound so dear to grooms when closely applying the curry-comb.
“Open the champagne, Fogarty,” said Matilda in a tone of lofty command.
“To be shure I will, miss,” replied the willing retainer, diving into the pockets of his trowsers in search of an iron-moulded corkscrew, which he eventually brought to the surface after considerable effort. “I’ll open it in a jiffy.”