The violet vendor, a fantastical, filthy old woman in a poke bonnet, heedless of the rebuke, pursued her avocation and Mr. French, trotting like a dog behind him, chanting her wares, her misfortunes, his good looks.
"Sure, they're only a penny the bunch; sure, they're only a penny the bunch. Oh, bless your han'some face! Sure, you wouldn't be walkin' the shtreets widout a flower in yer coat. Let your hand drap into your pocket and find a penny, and it's the blessin's of Heaven will be pourin' on you before the night's out. Sure, it's a bunch I'll be givin' you for nothin' at all, but just the pleasure of fixin' it in your coat, an' they as big as cabbiges and on'y a penny the bunch."
It was a kind of song, a recitative, and invocation.
"I tell you I have no change," flashed the flowerless one. "I tell you I have no change."
The priestess of Flora halted and sniffed.
"Change!" said she. "No, nor nothin' to change."
Mr. French laughed as he opened his umbrella and hailed a passing outside car. "Faith," said he, as he mounted on the side of the car, "she's about hit the bull's-eye."
"Did you spake, sir?" said the jarvey.
"No, I was only thinking. Drive me to 32 Leeson Street. And where on earth did you pick up this old rattletrap of a horse from?"
"Pick him up!" said the jarvey with a grin. "Faith, the last time I picked him up was when he tumbled down in Dame Street yesterday afternoon, wid a carload of luggudge dhrivin' to Westland Row."