This was uttered so fervently that Miss Devereux, yielding to an ungovernable impulse, rang out a peal of musical laughter so bright, so joyous, so contagious that the remainder of the company ceased their colorless prattle in order firstly to listen and then to join in it.
“You are having all the fun to yourself,” cried Lindsay, addressing Geraldine Devereux. “What is the mot? Do send it round; we want something more piquante than an entrée at this stage of the proceedings.”
Geraldine, all blushes at this unlooked-for notoriety and isolation, declared that her laughter arose from a story that was being narrated to her by Mr. Percival.
“It’s the first time Percival ever succeeded in making anybody laugh with him,” exclaimed a sour-looking old gentleman who wore the red ribbon of a C. B. round his neck.
“Let us have it, Percival, pro bono publico.”
“Is it any secret of the office, Mr. Percival?” demanded Miss Lindsay. “Because if it is there’s ’a chiel amang ye takin’ notes.’ Eh, Lord Jocelyn?”
“Like the ghost of Hamlet’s father, I am forbid to tell the secrets of my prison-house,” was Percival’s retort.
“Is it worth hearing?—that is the question.”
“Very well worth hearing,” said Geraldine.
“It’s merely an Irish adventure,” observed Percival.