“Well, but don't go without your breakfast. Take a cup of tay anyhow, Owen dear!”
“Owen dear! O Mary, jewel! don't say them words, and I laving you for ever.”
The young girl blushed deeply and turned away her head, but her crimsoned neck shewed that her shame was not departed. At the moment, Phil burst into the room, and standing for a second with his eyes fixed on each in turn, he said, “Bad scran to ye, for women; but there's nothing but decate and wickedness in ye; divil a peace or ease I ever got when I quarrelled with Owen, and now that we're friends, ye're as cross and discontented as ever. Try what you can do with her yourself, Owen, my boy; for I give her up.”
“'Tis not for me to thry it,” said Owen, despondingly; “'tis another has the betther luck.”
“That's not true, anyhow,” cried Phil; “for she told me so herself.”
“What! Mary, did ye say that?” said Owen, with a spring across the room; “did ye tell him that, darling?”
“Sure if I did, ye wouldn't believe me,” said Mary, with a side-look; “women is nothing but deceit and wickedness.”
“Sorra else,” cried Owen, throwing his arm round her neck and kissing her; “and I'll never believe ye again, when ye say ye don't love me.”
“'Tis a nice way to boil the eggs hard,” said Phil, testily; “arrah, come over here and eat your breakfast, man; you'll have time enough for courting when we come back.”