“What a relief!” cried Matilda Casey, throwing herself into an easy-chair.
The dinner at 190 was supplied by Murphy, of Clare Street, the Gunter, the Delmonico of Dublin.
“I don’t care a farden about the price,” said Mickey to the smiling caterer. “I want it done tip-top, and let the ongtrays be something quite out of the common; for Colonel and Mrs. Colonel Bowdler are to dine with us, and me wife is very anxious to have everything spiffy.”
Mrs. Casey was in a fever of preparation the livelong day, washing glasses, getting out wine, laying the table, while Matilda with her own fair hands fitted up the épergne with rare hot-house plants and crystallized fruits.
“Papa will take Mrs. Colonel Bowdler in to dinner, and Colonel Bowdler will take you, mamma.”
“Oh! no, me pet; I’d rather he’d take you.”
“But it’s not etiquette.”
“Oh! bother etiquette,” exclaimed Mrs. Casey, wiping her face in a napkin.
“It’s all very fine to say bother etiquette; but if we do not show it now, what will Colonel and Mrs. Colonel Bowdler think of us?”
The appalling consequences attendant upon her refusal to be led to the banquet by the gallant colonel smote the mind of Mrs. Casey with such considerable force that she at once assented to the proposal, lauding her daughter’s foresight to the very skies.