He was presented in due form by the abashed Casey, and, after having shaken hands with all round, commenced a vigorous attack upon a slice of turbot with his knife, plunging that useful instrument two or three inches into his mouth at every helping, until Miss Beamish, who was seated opposite, shuddered with apprehension.
“Is there anything the matter with ye, ma’am?” he demanded, upon observing a ghastly contraction of the muscles of her face.
“N-nothing,” she stammered.
“Ye haven’t got a pain?”
“Uncle, help yourself to champagne,” shrilly interposed Matilda.
“Pshaw! get me some whiskey, me pet,” adding, as he winked facetiously upon Mrs. Bowdler, “champagne is taydious.”
“By and by, uncle,” said the agonized girl.
“A little drop wouldn’t harm Miss Baymish there, Matty; she looks as if—”
“Take some more beef, Tim,” put in Mrs. Casey.
“Well, just wan skelp more, Mary. Room for wan inside, as the man said.”