MARY DOUL.
with quiet confidence going to Martin Doul and feeling his cloak. — It’s proud we’ll be this day, surely.
[Martin Doul is still ringing.]
MOLLY BYRNE.
to Martin Doul. — Would you think well to be all your life walking round the like of that, Martin Doul, and you bell-ringing with the saints of God?
MARY DOUL.
turning on her, fiercely. — How would he be bell-ringing with the saints of God and he wedded with myself?
MARTIN DOUL.
It’s the truth she’s saying, and if bell-ringing is a fine life, yet I’m thinking, maybe, it’s better I am wedded with the beautiful dark woman of Ballinatone.
MOLLY BYRNE.
scornfully. — You’re thinking that, God help you; but it’s little you know of her at all.
MARTIN DOUL.
It’s little surely, and I’m destroyed this day waiting to look upon her face.
TIMMY.
awkwardly. — It’s well you know the way she is; for the like of you do have great knowledge in the feeling of your hands.
MARTIN DOUL.
still feeling the cloak. — We do, maybe. Yet it’s little I know of faces, or of fine beautiful cloaks, for it’s few cloaks I’ve had my hand to, and few faces (plaintively); for the young girls is mighty shy, Timmy the smith and it isn’t much they heed me, though they do be saying I’m a handsome man.
MARY DOUL.
mockingly, with good humour. — Isn’t it a queer thing the voice he puts on him, when you hear him talking of the skinny-looking girls, and he married with a woman he’s heard called the wonder of the western world?