Phil. And welcome! What? But first, see! isn’t there an elegant pair of boots, that fits a leg like wax?—There’s what’ll plase Car’line Flaherty, I’ll engage. But what ails you, Honor?—you look as if your own heart was like to break. Are not you for the fair to-day?—and why not?
Honor. Oh! rasons. (Aside) Now I can’t speak.
Phil. Speak on, for I’m dumb and all ear—speak up, dear—no fear of the father’s coming out, for he’s leaving his bird (i.e. beard) in the bason, and that’s a work of time with him.—Tell all to your own Phil.
Honor. Why then I won’t go to the fair—because—better keep myself to myself, out of the way of meeting them that mightn’t be too plasing to my father.
Phil. And might be too plasing to somebody else—Honor McBride.
Honor. Oh, Phil, dear! But only promise me, brother, dearest, if you would this day meet any of the Rooneys—
Phil. That means Randal Rooney.
Honor. No, it was his mother Catty was in my head.
Phil. A bitterer scould never was!—nor a bigger lawyer in petticoats, which is an abomination.
Honor. ‘Tis not pritty, I grant; but her heart’s good, if her temper would give it fair play. But will you promise me, Phil, whatever she says—you won’t let her provoke you this day.