“I don't perceive that it's very complimentary to myself, either,” said Agincourt, struggling to keep down a laugh. But O'Shea was far too full of his own cares to have any thought for another's, and he went on muttering below his breath about national injustice and Saxon jealousy.
“You 'll accept this, then? Shall I say so?”
“I believe you will! I'd like to see myself refuse a thousand a-year and pickings.”
“I suspect I know what you have in your mind, too. I 'll wager a pony that I guess it. You 're planning to marry that pretty widow, and carry her out with you.”
O'Shea grew crimson over face and forehead, and stared at the other almost defiantly, without speaking.
“Ain't I right?” asked Agincourt, somewhat disconcerted by the look that was bent upon him.
“You are not right; you were never more wrong in your life.”
“May be so; but you 'll find it a hard task to persuade me so.”
“I don't want to persuade you of anything; but this I know, that you 've started a subject there that I won't talk on with you or any one else. Do you mind me now? I 'm willing enough to owe you the berth you offered me, but not upon conditions; do you perceive—no conditions.”
This was not a very intelligible speech, but Agincourt could detect the drift of the speaker, and caught him cordially by the hand, and said, “If I ever utter a word that offends you, I pledge my honor it will be through inadvertence, and not intention.”