Old McB. But he repints now; and what can a man do but repint, and offer to make honourable restitution, and thinking of marrying, as now, Honor dear;—is not that a condescension of he, who’s a sort of a jantleman?
Honor. A sort, indeed—a bad sort.
Old McB. Why, not jantleman born, to be sure.
Honor. Nor bred.
Old McB. Well, there’s many that way, neither born nor bred, but that does very well in the world; and think what it would be to live in the big shingled house, in Ballynavogue, with him!
Honor. I’d rather live here with you, father.
Old McB. Then I thank you kindly, daughter, for that, but so would not I for you,—and then the jaunting-car, or a coach, in time, if he could! He has made the proposhal for you in form this day.
Honor. And what answer from you, father?
Old McB. Don’t be looking so pale,—I tould him he had my consint, if he could get yours. And, oh! before you speak, Honor dear, think what it would be up and down in Ballynavogue, and every other place in the county, assizes days and all, to be Mistress Gerald O’Blaney!
Honor. I couldn’t but think very ill of it, father; thinking ill, as I do, of him. Father dear, say no more, don’t be breaking my heart—I’ll never have that man; but I’ll stay happy with you.