"Read one of your papers, ma'm; practice what you preach," suggested the fictitious Bulworthy.
"How would you look if I was to say that I had a regard for the cobbler himself, since you're so mightily interested in his wife?" said she, with an injured-woman air and look.
"Say, ma'm! Bedad, I'd say that the cobbler isn't such a fool as to return the compliment," replied the other, in a provoking tone, that made the eyes of Mrs. Bulworthy flash green like those of a cat in the dark.
"I'm not so sure of that," she retorted, with a meaning toss of her fallacious curls, that implied unspeakable things.
"But I am, you see, strange as it may appear, ma'm," he went on, with a jolly laugh, strangled suddenly by a gouty pang that made him roar again.
"Serve you right, you ungrateful reprobate; I saw you this morning flinging your good-for-nothing eyes at the jade; but I'll serve you out for it, see if I don't; you shall have a blessed time, if ever a man had in the world, you vile, deceitful, double-faced old porcupine; after the years we've been together, too, slavin' and working to scrape up the bit of money to be the comfort of our old age," she continued, diverging into the sentimental, and dropping a few hard tears, that fell from her cold eyes like pellets of hail. "You want to break my heart, you do, you murderer, that you may follow your wicked coorses without hendrance. Mrs. Duff and her babby; indeed, her babby! how do I know who's babby it is?" and she looked green-eyed monsters at the supposititious Squire, who heightened her fiery temper up to explosion-point, by replying, with a chuckle.
"Faix, the babby's mine, I b'leeve."
Now be it understood that, for the instant, his disputable identity was forgotten, and it was all Dan that spoke:
"Yours," shrieked the now infuriated female, making a threatening demonstration towards him.
"Yes—no—I mean—oh, murdher, I forgot I was ould Bulworthy for a minnit. It's a rise I was takin' out of you, that's all," he went on, "just for the fun of the thing."