“Confound you, Maurice, you’ve always some villanous narrative or other. You never crossed a street for shelter without making something out of it.”
“True this time, as sure as my name’s Maurice; but the bowl is empty.”
“Never mind, here comes its successor. How long can you stay among us?”
“A few days at most. Just took a run off to see the sights. I was all over Lisbon this morning; saw the Inquisition and the cells and the place where they tried the fellows,—the kind of grand jury room with the great picture of Adam and Eve at the end of it. What a beautiful creature she is; hair down to her waist, and such eyes! ‘Ah, ye darling!’ said I to myself, ‘small blame to him for what he did. Wouldn’t I ate every crab in the garden, if ye asked me!’”
“I must certainly go to see her, Maurice. Is she very Portuguese in her style?”
“Devil a bit of it! She might be a Limerick-woman with elegant brown hair and blue eyes and a skin like snow.”
“Come, come, they’ve pretty girls in Lisbon too, Doctor.”
“Yes, faith,” said Power, “that they have.”
“Nothing like Ireland, boys; not a bit of it; they’re the girls for my money; and where’s the man can resist them? From Saint Patrick, that had to go and live in the Wicklow mountains—”
“Saint Kevin, you mean, Doctor.”