Celia: He might be in under the settle.
(Stoops.) Where are you, my little bird. (Sings.)
(Air, "Shule Aroon.")
"But now my love has gone to France
His own fair fortune to advance;
If he comes back again 'tis but a chance;
Os go dé tu Mavourneen slân!"
Conan: (Putting her away.) What way would
he be in it? Let you put a stop to that humming.
(Seizes her.) Come here to the light ...is it
you sewed this button on my coat?
Celia: It was not. It is likely it was some
tailor down in the North.
Conan: It is getting loose on the sleeve.
Celia: Ah, it will last a good while yet. Coo, coo!
Conan: (Getting before her.) It would be no
great load on you to get a needle and put a stitch
would tighten it.