“Never. He’s the most vulgar, insolent blackguard I ever encountered.”
“He has lots of money.”
“I wonder does he play loo?”
“We can ask him.”
“He’d play a lively game.”
“And could be plucked like a green gosling.”
To the intense relief of the Casey family, Mr. Rooney stoutly refused to adjourn to the upper regions, but remained in the dining-room smoking a short clay pipe and drinking whiskey-punch.
Miss Beamish, upon hearing that he was enormously wealthy and unmarried to boot, began to build a castle in Spain, in which she figured as châtelaine, while the uncultured proprietor was gradually toned down by those feminine influences which smooth the angles of the most rugged natures.
“I do like this child of nature, Miss Casey,” she gushed; “it is sweet to hear the wild bird in the full, untutored sweetness of its note. Shall we see your uncle again to-night?”
“I hope not,” was Matilda’s reply.