Hard [R.] Genus squireen—a half sir, and a whole scoundrel.
Anne I know—a potatoe on a silver plate: I’ll leave you to peel him. Come, Mr. Daly, take me for a moonlight walk, and be funny.
Kyrle Funny, ma’am, I’m afraid I am—
Anne You are heavy, you mean; you roll through the world like a hogshead of whisky; but you only want tapping for pure spirits to flow out spontaneously. Give me your arm. [Crossing, R.] Hold that glove now. You are from Ballinasloe, I think?
Kyrle I’m Connaught to the core of my heart.
Anne To the roots of your hair, you mean. I bought a horse at Ballinasloe fair that deceived me; I hope you won’t turn out to belong to the same family.
Kyrle [R. C.] What did he do?
Anne Oh! like you, he looked well enough—deep in the chest as a pool—a-dhiol, and broad in the back as the Gap of Dunloe—but after two days’ warm work he came all to pieces, and Larry, my groom, said he’d been stuck together with glue.
Kyrle [R.] Really, Miss Chute! [Music.—Exeunt, R. 1 E.
Hard [Advancing, laughing.] That girl is as wild as a coppleen,—she won’t leave him a hair on the head. [Goes up.