Wouldn't she?
"True for you, Nell," replies another, "an' did you remark purty Norah, as the boys call her? Purty, indeed! it wouldn't take blind Barty, the piper, a month of Sundays to see all the purty there is about her. I wouldn't be seen with such a nose on my face; an' she comin' over us wid the pride of a sthraw bonnet, this beautiful summer's day; the hood of an ould grey cloak was good enough for the mother before her, to wear. It isn't disgracin' my mother's memory I'd be, by puttin' sthraw bonnets on my head."
"Well, it is a shame; do you know what I've heerd?"
"What?"
"Why, neither more nor less than that purty Miss Norah is setting her sthraw bonnet at Pat Kinchela."
"No!"
"It's the heaven's truth; didn't I see her to day, lookin' at him dhreadful? I wouldn't look at a man the way she did, no, not if he was made of goold."
"Whist! Nelly; look yondher! if there isn't Pat, see and that consated minx walkin' arm-in-arm; bless your sowl, there's quality manners for ye. I wonder, for my part, the road doesn't open and swally such impidence right up; now just obsarve them, sthruttin' along as if everybody else was the dirt undher their feet. Well, if that isn't owdaciousness, I wish somebody would tell me what is."
But, inasmuch as our story has more to do with Pat and Norah than with those chattering specimens of a rather numerous class, we'll attend to them, and let the others go about their business—of detraction.
Pat has just hazarded an important question, as would appear from the sudden and more brilliant flush that spread over pretty Norah's cheek, than from any significancy in her reply, which was simply: