“Well, Pat,” she began, on the principle that the first blow is half the battle, “what has brought ye—I mean you”—correcting herself—“up here?”
“To see you, of course. Sure, I never can get a word with you below.”
“An’ why should you?” she asked, with some asperity. “Ye are very big in yerself!”
“See here now,” he began, in a loud, hoarse voice, “which are you at the present moment—Mary, or her ladyship? For I’d like to know where I am.”
“I am always Mary here”—and she glanced back at the cottage, which, even in a short time, had assumed a forlorn and deserted appearance. The poor old place! Already the weeds were flourishing in the garden, and the kitchen, when she entered it, smelt of damp, and soot.
“Then it’s to Mary I’m talking. Mary, wid all your grandeur and money, you won’t buy love, mind you that, and you will never find any one, if you were to go over the wide world, that will love you the same as I do.”
“Perhaps not, Patsie.”
“Ah!”—and his tone was triumphant.
“But what is the use of it, Pat, when I cannot—never could or would or should—love you.”
“Ye never tried!”