“Body and soul, man!” exclaimed the other, jumping from his recumbent position on the sofa, “You don’t mean to tell me you’re going to marry Anty Lynch?”
“In course not,” answered Martin; “av’ your lordship objects.”
“Object, man!—How the devil can I object? Why, she’s six hundred a year, hasn’t she?”
“About four, my lord, I think’s nearest the mark.”
“Four hundred a year! And I don’t suppose you owe a penny in the world!”
“Not much—unless the last gale [10] to your lordship—and we never pay that till next May.”
“And so you’re going to marry Anty Lynch!” again repeated Frank, as though he couldn’t bring himself to realise the idea; “and now, Martin, tell me all about it,—how the devil you managed it—when it’s to come off—and how you and Barry mean to hit it off together when you’re brothers. I suppose I’ll lose a good tenant any way?”
“Not av’ I’m a good one, you won’t, with my consent, my lord.”
“Ah! but it’ll be Anty’s consent, now, you know. She mayn’t like Toneroe. But tell me all about it. What put it into your head?”
“Why, my lord, you run away so fast; one can’t tell you anything. I didn’t say I was going to marry her—at laist, not for certain;—I only said I might do worse.”