“Kitmagar, one of my servants.”
“An Irishman, of course.”
“No, sir, a Hindoo.”
“Well, this flogs; are ye listening to this, Mickey?” addressing Casey, who had drawn off the colonel.
“Am I listening to what?” asked the host rather gruffly.
“To this old fogy here.”
“Really, Mr. Rooney—” began the offended major.
“Don’t mind him, Major Beamish,” cried Casey, “but pitch into the claret; it’s Château Lafitte of a comet vintage. At least, Redmond told me so, and he ought to know.”
“It’s a very fine wine, Casey—a soft wine, sir, in superb condition, and heated to perfection,” observed the major, tossing off a glassful and quickly replacing the goblet.
“Goes down like mother’s milk,” added the colonel, following suit.