“But, Andy, is not speech the way to make known what you wish other people to know?”
“Ah, go to God! I’d like to know if ye take it for granted whin ye ask a girrul a question an’ she says ‘no,’ that she manes it—or that she intends ayther that ye should think she manes it. Faix! it ’d be a harrd wurrld to live in, if that was so; an’ there ’d be mighty few widdys in it ayther!”
“Why widows, Andy?”
“Shure, isn’t wives the shtuff that widdys is made iv!”
“Oh! I see. I’m learning, Andy—I’m getting on!”
“Yis! yer ’an’r. Ye haven’t got on the long cap now; but I’m afeerd it’s only a leather medal ye’d get as yit. Niver mind! surr. Here’s the long car comin’; an’ whin ye tellygraph to Misther Dick to sind me over to Galway fur to bring ye back, I’ll luk up Miss Norah an’ ax her to condescind to give ye some lessons in the differ betwixt ‘yes’ an’ ‘no’ as shpoke by girruls. I’m tould now, it’s a mighty intherestin’ kind iv a shtudy for a young gintleman!”
There was no answering this Parthian shaft.
“Good-bye! Andy,” I said, as I left a sovereign in his hand.
“Good luck! yer ’an’r; though what’s the use iv wishin’ luck to a man, whin the fairies is wid him!”
The last thing I saw was Andy waving his ragged hat as we passed the curve of the road round the lake before Recess was hidden from our view.