Miss G. Father, go your ways back to your punch. Here stands the only raal gentleman in company (pointing to the drum-major), if I’m to make the election.
Christy. Major, you can’t but drink her health for that compliment. {He presents a glass of punch to Mr. HOPE.
Mr. H. Miss Gallagher’s health, and a gude husband to her, and soon.
Miss G. And soon!—No hurry for them that has choice.
Christy. That has money, you mane, jewel. Mr. Gilbert, you did not give us your toast.
Gilb. Your good health, ma’am—your good health, sir,—Mr. Hope, your good health, and your fireside in Scotland, and in pa’tic’lar your good wife.
Miss G. (starting) Your wife, sir! Why, sir, is’t possible you’re a married man, after all?
Mr. H. Very possible, ma’am—thank Heaven and my gude Kate.
Miss G. His gude Kate!—Well, I hate the Scotch accent of all languages under the sun.
Christy. In a married man, I suppose you mane, Florry?