At this moment Miss Lindsay telegraphed for the ladies to retire, and the usual uprising, and rustle and removal of chairs, and grim punctilio of menkind, and saucy insouciance of womenkind took place. When the gentlemen had reseated themselves the host cried:
“Close quarters, mes braves. Approach to the attack of this fortress of Château Lafitte. Get up here, Percival; you were lost to me for the last two hours.”
In obedience to the mandate of his host the bureaucrat moved more above the salt, and, casting his eyes across the table, he was astonished and delighted to discover the young Irishman who had so pluckily distinguished himself upon the two occasions already detailed in this truthful narrative.
“I am awfully glad to meet you,” he said, taking up his glass and moving to a vacant chair beside Charley Devereux.
Charley bowed stiffly and awkwardly.
“I was at the Albion with a friend last Thursday when you dropped upon that disgusting cad.”
Devereux blushed like a schoolgirl.
“He was a low, swaggering blackguard, and, only I had an appointment with my sister, I’d have kicked him into Covent Garden among the cabbages,” he warmly exclaimed.
“He wanted my friend and I to witness what he called the assault, but we gave him scant encouragement. I also saw you the very same day do a very plucky thing in Hyde Park.”
“Oh! I know what you mean. Pshaw! it’s not worth mentioning.”