“What a success!” exclaimed Matilda, throwing herself on a sofa that had been wheeled out of the dining-room into the hall in order to make room, “except for”—nodding towards Tim, who was endeavoring to light a bedroom candlestick with a singularly unsteady hand.
“They all took to him,” whispered Mrs. Casey.
“I never got such a turn as when he came in. O mamma! I thought I should have died.”
“Well, aren’t the Bowdlers nice, agreeable people, Matilda?” demanded Mr. Casey.
“Delightful, exquisite! Such elegant refinement. And the Beamishes are equally well bred.”
“That major is a downy old bird.”
“He is a most perfect gentleman. How he did praise my playing!”
The Caseys did not see much of the Bowdlers during the next few days, the colonel having over-eaten himself, and his wife being laid up with an attack of bronchitis; but Major Beamish and his daughter were most constant in their attentions, calling, staying to dinner, going to the theatre—Casey paying for all, cabs included—coming home to supper, and other attentions equally delicate and one-sided. The major was very prononcé in his manner toward Matilda, who, while she accepted his homage, did not for a moment imagine it meant more than that excessive and chivalrous politeness which distinguishes the vieux militaire of any nationality.
Miss Beamish lay in wait for Tim Rooney, and spun her web as deftly as the uncouth movements of this desirable fly permitted. She adroitly learned his hours for going out, and invariably intercepted him.
“I’m always meeting that wan,” he observed to his sister. “She’s for ever in the street.”