“That’s lucky, anyhow,” said the old man, musing. “Well, honey, when I found that I couldn’t do any better, I said I’d go and talk to yourself, and see whether you were set upon stayin’ with all your heart, or if you’d like to go back again.”
“Is it back to Derryvaragh?”
“Yes; where else?”
“Catch me at it, Peter Malone, that’s all! Catch me goin’ to eat potatoes and lie on straw, work in the fields and go barefoot, when I can be a lady, and have everything I can think of.”
“I wonder will ye ever larn it?”
“Larn what?”
“To be a lady—I mane a raal lady—that nobody, no matter how cute they were, could find you out.”
“Give me two years, Peter Malone, just two years—maybe not so much, but I’d like to be sure—and if I don’t, I’ll promise you to go back to. Derryvaragh, and never lave it again.”
“Faix, I think you’d win!”
“Sure, I know it.”