“Ballybo.
“Mr. Charley Devereux’ compliments to Mr. Percival”—that’s civil at any rate—“and begs to say that in order to oblige his mother”—whose mother? My poor mother died when I was toothless—“he writes this note. Mr. C. D. doesn’t believe in bothering people who don’t care about him”—come, now, this is a sensible lad—“and he doesn’t care for people whom he doesn’t know”—sensible again. “If Mr. Percival wants to see Mr. C. D., he will find him at the Charing Cross Hotel on and after Monday next.”
“I say, Minniver, just come over and take your Lafitte here. I have such a bon bouche for you!” said Percival, addressing a gentleman seated at a neighboring table.
“What’s the row?” demanded Mr. Minniver, a tall, aristocratic man, whose hair was parted in the centre and whose eye-glass was the sole occupation of his life.
“Two letters from Ireland.”
“No!”
“Fact.”
“Take my glawss and decanter over to Mr. Percival’s table,” said Mr. Minniver, addressing a waiter.
“Shall I read ’em to you, Minniver?”