(who had been almost forced into the banquet by Beatoun's
imperious hospitality) were not a wet blanket in the least.
Patrick Fitzmaurice, brogue and all, was an Irish gentleman
without a flaw. He blossomed out into a modest wag; and told
two or three comic stories as acceptably as he was used to tell
them to a very different circle--only, carrying a fresher
flavor of wit to this circle, perhaps, it enjoyed them more.
Mrs. Fitzmaurice looked scared and ate almost nothing,
with the greatest propriety, and her fork in her left hand.
Yet even she thawed under Miss Van Harlem's attentions and gentle
Mrs. Beatoun's tact, and the winning ways of the last Beatoun baby.
She took this absent cherub to her heart with such undissembled
warmth that its mother ever since has called her "a sweet,
funny little old lady."

They were both (Patrick and his wife) quite unassuming and retiring,
and no urging could dissuade them from parting with the company
at the tavern door.

"My word, Tommy, your mother and I can git home by ourselves,"
whispered honest Patrick; "we've not exceeded--if the wines WERE good.
I never exceeded in my life, God take the glory!"

But he embraced Tommy so affectionately in parting that I confess
Mrs. Carriswood had suspicions. Yet, surely, it is more likely
that his brain was--let us not say TURNED, but just a wee bit TILTED,
by the joy and triumph of the occasion rather than by Beatoun's
port or champagne.

But Mrs. Carriswood's word had nothing to do with Tommy's parents,