All the light literature in Drumgool House found its way here--and remained. The yellow-backed books were the works of Arthur Sketchley, a most pleasing humourist whose name has faded almost from our memories. "Mrs. Brown's 'Oliday Outings," "Mrs. Brown in Paris," "Mrs. Brown at the Seaside"--all were here. They had been bought by some member of the French family with a taste for humour, as had also the comic papers.
To Miss French in her captivity the dead-and-gone artists, the dead-and-gone jokes, the fashions and manners of the eighties, which are as Thebes to us, were fresh and vigorous. Up-to-date papers and books came little in her way, for French was not a reading man.
"Where's your spectacles?" asked Effie, after they had conversed for a while, tucking the rug round herself and speaking with the jocularity and familiarity which generally is associated with long acquaintanceship.
"Oh, my spectacles--they are coming by the next train. Also my snuffbox and a birch-rod."
"Get out with you!" said Miss French, moving under the rug, as if someone had tickled her. "Your snuffbox and your birch-rod! Get out with you!"
It was the first time that Miss Grimshaw had come across a child brought up almost entirely by servants--and Irish servants at that--but there was an entire good humour about the product that made it not displeasing.
"So that's how you welcome me, telling me to get out almost as soon as I have come! Very well, I am going."
"Off with you, then!" replied the other, falling into the vein of badinage as easily as a billiard ball into a pocket. "Patwallop, along with you. I don't care. Hi! come back."
"What is it?" inquired Miss Grimshaw, now at the door, with her hand on the door handle.
She bent. Two small arms flung themselves tentaclewise round her neck, and she was nearly deafened by a "Boo!" in her ear, followed and apologised for by a moist and warm-hearted kiss.
Extract from a letter addressed by Miss V. Grimshaw to a friend:
"Since I last wrote to you, young Mr. Dashwood has left. He stayed three days. Mr. French insisted on his staying, sent for his luggage to the inn at Cloyne, put him up in the best bedroom, where I believe Dan O'Connell once slept, and kept him up till all hours of the morning, drinking far more whisky than was good for his constitution, I am sure.