“Ladies and Gentlemen, I rise to propose t’health of the Bride. ’Ont congratulate you. Reckavile is sad dog, like all his family, but hope fot’ best. Congratulate Hugh, damned pretty woman, beg pardon, Ladies, but ’struth. Wish I had married her myself. Never mind. Lucky to have hooked him, many tried unsuccessively—wrong—unsuccess …, without success, t’ats better.
“Well, don’t want long speeches. Here’s to Bride, and all the little Reckaviles, past, present and to come,” and he sat down.
“Get up you ass, and propose the toast,” said Harding, one of the guests attempting to pour port into Curtis’ glass, and spilling most on the table.
“I never take port now,” said the unhappy Curtis “the doctor has absolutely forbidden it.”
“Stupid ass, the doctor,” said Harding “Port best thing for gout in the world.”
Wynter rose again with difficulty and gave his toast which was drunk with musical or unmusical honours. A waiter entered to ask whether anything was required, and Harding hit him with a ripe watermelon, which exploded over his shirt front, and he retired.
“Speech,” said Wynter clapping his hands vigorously.
Winnie’s face was flushed though she had drunk sparingly. In a few tasteful words she thanked Wynter, and hoped that she would make a good wife for Hugh, and that he did not regret the step he had taken. It was a good little speech, and Reckavile was pleased with her. She was a damned good sort, he found himself repeating, and the subaltern on his left whose very name he had forgotten agreed heartily with him.
Florrie had left the table and was sitting at the piano playing soft tunes, while Harding was tickling her neck with a peacock’s feather he had taken from an ornament on the mantelpiece.
Wynter rose to his feet again.