Pat. (Severely.) Don’t yer lie to me, Missus Grady. I may be suffering undher a fit av despair, but I am not drunk, and I have me feelings. Shure, an’ I fell complately down on that front piazzy.
Brid. Ye don’t know what ye are saying, Patrick.
Pat. (Looking at Denis.) How long since you have been buying cigar signs to stick up in your drawing-room, Missus Grady?
Brid. Why, that’s your brother Denis.
Pat. (Advancing.) Faith, an’ it is! Denny, me boy, give me your flipper. Have ye a Henry Mud consaled wid you?
Den. I don’t smoke.
Pat. Yer don’t? Yer a Murphyite, are ye? An’ may I ax what sent ye here?
Brid. He heard what a drunken husband his sister had, and he came down to see about it.
Pat. Ah—ha! he did? Well, it’s my opinion, Missus Grady, that he’s drunk as an owl himself, and isn’t agreeable company for gintlemin like mesilf.
Den. I never drink, an’ it would be better, Patrick, if you never touched the whisky.