“Will you marry this Smithers, if that be her name?” said O'Shea, angrily.
“For the place—”
“I mean as much.”
“I would, if I was treated—'raysonable,'” said he, pausing for a moment in search of the precise word he wanted.
Mr. O'Shea sighed heavily; his exchequer contained nothing but promises; and none knew better than his follower what such pledges were worth.
“It would be the making of you, Joe,” said he, after a brief silence, “if I was to marry this heiress.”
“Indeed, it might be,” responded the other.
“It would be the grand event of your life, that's what it would be. What could I not do for you? You might be land-steward; you might be under-agent, bailiff, driver,—eh?”
“Yes,” said Joe, closing his eyes, as if he desired to relish the vision undisturbed by external distractions.
“I have always treated you as a sort of friend, Joe,—you know that.”