gentleman's, one hundred and four people sit down to dinner every
day, as Petito informs me, besides kitchen boys, and what they call
_char_-women, who never sit down, but who do not eat or waste the less
for that; and retainers and friends, friends to the fifth and sixth
generation, who 'must get their bit and their sup;' for 'sure, it's
only Biddy,' they say;" continued Lady Dashfort, imitating their Irish
brogue. "And 'sure, 'tis nothing at all, out of all his honour my lord
has. How could he _feel_ it[2]?--Long life to him!--He's not that way:
not a couple in all Ireland, and that's saying a great dale, looks
less after their own, nor is more off-handeder, or open-hearteder, or
greater openhouse-keeper, _nor_[3] my Lord and my Lady Killpatrick.'
Now there's encouragement for a lord and a lady to ruin themselves."

[Footnote 1: Fact.]
[Footnote 2: _Feel_ it, become sensible of it, know it.]
[Footnote 3: _Nor_, than.]

Lady Dashfort imitated the Irish brogue in perfection; boasted that
"she was mistress of fourteen different brogues, and had brogues for
all occasions." By her mixture of mimicry, sarcasm, exaggeration, and
truth, she succeeded continually in making Lord Colambre laugh at
every thing at which she wished to make him laugh; at every _thing_,
but not at every _body_: whenever she became personal, he became
serious, or at least endeavoured to become serious; and if he could
not instantly resume the command of his risible muscles, he reproached
himself.

"It is shameful to laugh at these people, indeed, Lady Dashfort, in
their own house--these hospitable people, who are entertaining us."