“Nor she of me! assuredly not, sir,” said Harry, with surprise at the idea. “Do you consider what I am—and what she is?”
“Well, I am glad they are gone to England out of the way!” said Cornelius.
“I am very sorry for that,” said Harry; “for I have lost a kind friend in Lady Annaly—one who at least I might have hoped would have become my friend, if I had deserved it.”
“Might have hoped!—would have become!—That’s a friend in the air, who may never be found on earth. If you deserved it!—Murder!—who knows how that might turn out—if—I don’t like that kind of subjunctive mood tenure of a friend. Give me the good imperative mood, which I understand—be my friend—at once—or not at all—that’s my mood. None of your if friends for me, setting out with a proviso and an excuse to be off; and may be when you’d call upon ‘em at your utmost need, ‘Oh! I said if you deserve it—Lie there like a dog.’ Now, what kind of a friend is that? If Lady Annaly is that sort, no need to regret her. My compliments to her, and a good journey to England—Ireland well rid of her! and so are you, too, my boy!”
“But, dear sir, how you have worked yourself up into a passion against Lady Annaly for nothing.”
“It’s not for nothing—I’ve good rason to dislike the woman. What business had she, because she’s an old woman and you a young man, to set up preaching to you about your faults? I hate prachers, feminine gender, especially.”
“She is no preacher, I assure you, sir.”
“How dare you tell me that—was not her letter very edifying? Sir Ulick said.”
“No, sir; it was very kind—will you read it?”
“No, sir, I won’t; I never read an edifying letter in my life with my eyes open, nor never will—quite enough for me that impertinent list of your faults she enclosed you.”