Mrs. C. Here we are, sure enough.
Mr. C. And so I mind ye of—of him, do I?
Mrs. C. That ye do. Ye favor him greatly. Dark complicted, an’ the same plisint smile.
Mr. C. Now, with me sittin’ here an’ you sittin’ there ferninst me, ye might almost think ye were marrit agin. [Insinuatingly.]
Mrs. C. Ah, go away now for a taze that ye are. [Mussing her apron by rolling the corners of it.]
Mr. C. I disremember what it was ye said about seein’ any man you liked betther nor him. [Moving his chair nearer to that of the widow.]
Mrs. C. He said, said he [smoothing her apron over her knees], Nora, said he, if anny time ye see anny man ye like betther nor me, marry him, says he.
Mr. C. Did he say anything about anny one ye liked as good as him?
Mrs. C. I don’t mind that he did. [Reflectively, folding her hands in her lap.]
Mr. C. I suppose he left that to yerself?