“Merely? Why, where is adventure to be achieved, if not in Ireland? Come, Percival, let us have it,” urged his host.
This was too good a chance for the member of Parliament. “I was in the House the night the Home-Rulers—” And he commenced an anecdote under cover of which the Foreign Office clerk was enabled to beat a retreat.
“It’s an awfully funny story, but some of the people here wouldn’t see it, you know.”
“I can’t see it yet, Mr. Percival; you have only just commenced. Pray proceed.”
“Well, you see, I got this letter raking me up, you know, and the other letter from the young Irish wolf-dog, who wouldn’t have me at any price. How awfully emerald these people must be to imagine that I could—may I use an Irish word?”
“No,” hotly.
“Bother myself about them, especially in the height of the season.” And Mr. Percival emptied a glass of champagne to his own sentiment.
“Poor things! And you don’t intend taking any notice of them?”
“No more than if they never existed.”
“And are you their kinsman?”