“You’re a wonderful child, dear; ‘pon me word, you think of everything.”
“The colonel will sit here, and I’ll put this bouquet opposite his chair with the menoo card; and Mrs. Bowdler will sit here, Fogarty,” addressing Luke, who was standing by with a portion of harness about his neck. “Take care that Colonel Bowdler gets enough of champagne.”
“Be me faix, thin, Miss Matilda, ye’d betther lave out a dozen anyhow, for he lapped it up yistherda like wather,” replied that functionary with a broad grin.
“And see that Mrs. Colonel Bowdler’s glass is always full.”
“I’m thinkin’ she’ll see to that herself wudout thrubblin’ me,” muttered Fogarty.
“Ask Colonel Bowdler if he’ll take sherry or Madeira with his soup.”
“To be sure he will, miss.”
“I say ask him which he’ll take.”
“I’ll make bould to say he’ll take the both o’ thim,” grinned Fogarty, who, with that quick perception characteristic of his race, had already “measured his man.”
“Be very particular about the ongtray.”