And so they talked stage-talk.  Puddock lithping away, grand and garrulous; O’Flaherty, the illiterate, blundering in with sincere applause; and Devereux sipping his claret and dropping a quiet saucy word now and again.

’I shall never forget Mrs. Cibber’s countenance in that last scene—­you know—­in the “Orphan”—­Monimia you know, Devereux.’  And the table being by this time in high chat, and the chairs a little irregular, Puddock slipped off his, and addressing himself to Devereux and O’Flaherty—­just to give them a notion of Mrs. Cibber—­began, with a countenance the most wobegone, and in a piping falsetto—­

     ‘When I am laid low, i’ the grave, and quite forgotten.’

Monimia dies at the end of the speech—­as the reader may not be aware; but when Puddock came to the line—­

     ‘When I am dead, as presently I shall be,’

all Mrs. Cibber’s best points being still to come, the little lieutenant’s heel caught in the edge of the carpet, as he sailed with an imaginary hoop on grandly backward, and in spite of a surprising flick-flack cut in the attempt to recover his equipoise, down came the ‘orphan,’ together with a table-load of spoons and plates, with a crash that stopt all conversation.

Lord Castlemallard waked up, with a snort and a ‘hollo, gentlemen!’

‘It’s only poor dear Monimia, general,’ said Devereux with a melancholy bow, in reply to a fiery and startled stare darted to the point by that gallant officer.

‘Hey—­eh?’ said his lordship, brightening up, and gazing glassily round with a wan smile; and I fancy he thought a lady had somehow introduced herself during his nap, and was pleased, for he admired the sex.

’If there’s any recitation going on, I think it had better be for the benefit of the company,’ said the general, a little surly, and looking full upon the plump Monimia, who was arranging his frill and hair, and getting a little awkwardly into his place.

’And I think ‘twould be no harm, Lieutenant Puddock, my dear,’ says Father Roach, testily, for he had been himself frightened by the crash, ‘if you’d die a little aisier the next time.’

Puddock began to apologise.

‘Never mind,’ said the general, recovering, ’let’s fill our glasses—­my Lord Castlemallard, they tell me this claret is a pretty wine.’

‘A very pretty wine,’ said my lord.

’And suppose, my lord, we ask these gentlemen to give us a song?  I say, gentlemen, there are fine voices among you.  Will some gentleman oblige the company with a song?’

‘Mr. Loftus sings a very fine song, I’m told,’ said Captain Cluffe, with a wink at Father Roach.

‘Ay,’ cried Roach, backing up the joke (a good old one, and not yet quite off the hooks), ’Mr. Loftus sings, I’ll take my davy—­I’ve heard him!’

Loftus was shy, simple, and grotesque, and looked like a man who could not sing a note.  So when he opened his eyes, looked round, and blushed, there was a general knocking of glasses, and a very flattering clamour for Mr. Loftus’s song.