Savoring my claret, I glanced askance at my neighbors; on my left sat my
cousin Dorothy Varick, frankly absorbed in a roasted pigeon, yet
wielding knife and fork with much grace and address; on my right
Magdalen Brant, step-cousin to Sir John, a lovely, soft-voiced girl,
with velvety eyes and the faintest dusky tint, which showed the Indian
blood through the carmine in her fresh, curved cheeks.
I started to speak to her, but there came a call from the end of the
table, and we raised our glasses to Sir Lupus, for which civility he
expressed his thanks and gave us the ladies, which we drank standing,
and reversed our glasses with a cheer.
Then Walter Butler gave us "The Ormonds and the Earls of Arran," an
amazing vanity, which shamed me so that I sat biting my lip, furious to
see Sir John wink at Colonel Claus, and itching to fling my glass at the
head of this young fool whose brain seemed cracked with brooding on
his pedigree.
Meat was served ere I was called on, but later, a delicious Burgundy
being decanted, all called me with a persistent clamor, so that I was
obliged to ask permission of Sir Lupus, then rise, still tingling with
the memory of the silly toast offered by Walter Butler.
"I give you," I said, "a republic where self-respect balances the
coronet, where there is no monarch, no high-priest, but only a clean
altar, served by the parliament of a united people.
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