‘We are the closest friends, and the most dangerous enemies. The reason is not far to seek. You can’t deny that the Irishman is, after all, the—a—well, it’s a difficult thing for me to say, but—you know what I mean.’
‘I’m sure I don’t, Mr O’Logan,’ said Lesbia. ‘Come, out with it! don’t be modest!’
‘Well, in fact—why disguise it?—the paragon of God’s creation—there it is.’
‘Guess he’s the loudest animal at blowing his own trumpet,’ laughed Letitia.
The dancing presently commenced, and Mr Lockstable happened to lead off the first waltz with his cousin Hilda. He was rather moody at the moment, and danced silently for a long turn. When at last they stopped to rest in a corner, he said to his partner, with sudden geniality,—
‘Do you know—I'm going to sneeze—do you know h—h—h—ha shub! do you know, h—ha shub! that seven years ago, ha shub! I danced at a ball on the Continent—in fact, at the Casino, the Etablissmong des Bang, you know, at Blown-sir-mayor, in this very evening suit in which I’m now waltzing with you. Hope to start a new one next month; seven years complete.’
Hilda laughed in his face.
‘What a funny man you are! I hope the lower portion is not too worn to hold out till our dance is over? But, I say, what were you doing at Boulogne? I shouldn’t have thought it was the sort of place you’d care about.’
‘Ah well,’ he replied, ‘there was gossip and caffyshantongs and squibs and balloons and boat-races and horse-races and balls and operas; but I wasn’t much in the town itself. I stayed about a month in a crockery-cupboard of an inn, at the hamlet of Whacking-gong[1] on the Calais road, about five miles from Blown, which I was
