Old McB. Why, then, I’ll be contint with that same; and who wouldn’t?—If it’s what you’d rather stay, and can stay contint, Honor dear, I’m only too happy. (Embracing her—then pausing.) But for Randal—
Honor. In what can you fau’t him, only his being a Rooney?
Old McB. That’s all—but that’s enough. I’d sooner see you in your coffin—sooner be at your wake to-night, than your wedding with a Rooney! ‘Twould kill me. Come, promise me—I’d trust your word—and ‘twould make me asy for life, and I’d die asy, if you’d promise never to have him.
Honor. Never till you would consent—that’s all I can promise.
Old McB. Well, that same is a great ase to my heart.
Honor. And to give a little ase to mine, father, perhaps you could promise—
Old McB. What?—I’ll promise nothing at all—I’ll promise nothing at all—I’ll promise nothing I couldn’t perform.
Honor. But this you could perform asy, dear father: just hear your own Honor.
Old McB. (aside) That voice would wheedle the bird off the bush—and when she’d prefar me to the jaunting-car, can I but listen to her? (Aloud) Well, what?—if it’s any thing at all in rason.
Honor. It is in rason entirely. It’s only, that if Catty Rooney’s—