“Patsy don’t matter,” replied Lord Gawdor.
“Sure, Mrs Kinsella has been brushin’ at it for an hour, Misther Robert,” said Patsy, putting his coal box down. “‘What ails you?’ says she, ‘for it’s more like a broom than a page-boy you are this mornin’,’ says she. ‘Sure, it’s addled I am,’ says I.”
“What has addled you, Patsy?” asked Doris.
“Dhrames, Miss Doris.”
“What were the dreams, Patsy?”
“I dhreamt I let robbers into the house through the bedroom windy,” replied Patsy in a faltering voice. “Miss Doris, what would they be afther doin’ to me if I did a thing like that?”
“They would hang you, Patsy,” replied Doris in a cheerful voice.
“Ohone!” cried the unfortunate Patsy, as if he were addressing some third person, “listen to that?—sure, it’s hanged I’d be. Miss Doris!”
“Yes, Patsy?”
“If I was goin’ about wid me legs where me arums ought to be, and me face twisted back to front, and me nose turned into a pig’s snout—for I dhreamt I was like that in me dhrame—what would I do for a livin’ at all, at all?”