“Ye’d betther open this combusticle yerself, gineral,” suggested Fogarty; “an mind ye hould on to the cork, or it ‘ill give ye the slip as shure as there’s a bill on a crow.”
“I must introduce your dear daughter here to the Dayrolles,” exclaimed Mrs. Bowdler, “and to the Fitzmaurices. You will like Lady Fitzmaurice, Miss Casey, and I know she will like you.”
“Do you hear that, Matilda? Now, won’t ye play for Mrs. Colonel Bowdler?”
“I’m a very poor player,” simpered Matilda.
Nevertheless, she proceeded to the piano and dashed off a morceau of Chopin with considerable vigor, during which the colonel improved the occasion by pocketing a bunch of grapes and a good-sized cut of seed-cake.
“Bravissima!” he cried, as if in rapture. “Lord St. Lawrence must hear that, Jemima; we must try and get him to name a night.”
“We can reckon on Lady Howth.”
“Certainly. She’s always too glad to be asked.”
“And the Powerscourts?”
“By the way, that reminds me: we owe a visit at Powerscourt, do we not?”