“It is splendid to what it used to be when I was a boy,” replied Sir Reginald; “we had a kind of orchestra composed of a fiddle and a flute.” “Did any of you see me?” asked Alice, appealing to the company. “Every time I knelt down and leant forward the jet fringe on the jacket of the lady in front, who would sit bolt upright, became entangled in the feathers of my bonnet. At one time it threatened to be quite serious. I was afraid I should have had to have slipped off my bonnet and left it behind.” “No, I did not remark you,” responded Geoffrey. “But did you see the old buffer with the white waistcoat exactly under the pulpit? Miss Ferrars has taken such a fancy to him. She never took her eyes off him, and whispered to me during the sermon, ‘That she would rather be an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave.’” “Mr. Saville, how can you?” “_He_ might not suit,” pursued Geoffrey unabashed, “but I’ll look out for another old gentleman for you, very old, very infirm, and very rich--the most tender and assiduous care during his lifetime guaranteed, _n’est-ce pas_?” “I have no intention of marrying at present, many thanks for your kind offer.” “Well, perhaps you are right,” returned Geoffrey calmly. “I myself am inclined to agree with the Frenchman who said, ‘Three weeks’ paradise, thirty years’ war!’ Married people always fight either quietly at home, which is the most _deadly_, or publicly, which is the most amusing.” “Really, Geoffrey,” said Miss Saville, “with two married people present it is hardly polite to air such opinions.” “Oh,” replied this incorrigible young man, looking mischievously at Alice, “if the cap does not fit them they need not put it on.” “Have some claret, Alice?” interrupted her husband, seeing that Geoffrey was in a teasing humour. “No, thank you.” “Oh, but you will have to take it, my dear girl,” said her aunt; “you know you were ordered it.” “Was she?” exclaimed Sir Reginald, pouring out a glass and gently pushing it towards her. “Oh, but I really cannot drink it. I hate it!” she urged. “Then have some on your handkerchief,” said Geoffrey soothingly; “like the man who became a teetotaller after indulging for years, and being asked to take some _real_ ‘mountain dew,’ reluctantly declined, but said, ‘Give me a drop on my handkerchief, it will do me good to _smell_ it.’” “Hold out your handkerchief; it will be all the same as if you swallowed it.” “Geoffrey, I declare I think you are quite off your head at times; is he not, Mary?--or is it his Irish proclivities breaking out?” said Alice, waving away Geoffrey and the claret-jug. “Don’t _you_ talk about Irish proclivities, ma’am; you have a strong suspicion of the blarney-stone yourself, and Irish eyes, and a real Irish temper.” “Geoffrey, how _can_ you say so?”