She turned an arch gaze upon me, half-laughing at my words.
“I believe he sent you here to say so,” cries she.
“Indeed, an’ he did,” says I. “He’s anxious for your good opinion.”
“Why, what should I know of him?” says she, and then, turning to stare after him, she cried, “There he is, talking to my father. I’m sure he knows we’re picking him to pieces.”
“Pearls every one,” says I.
“Oh, dad is calling me,” she exclaimed, breaking away upon the words and showing me as pretty an ankle, when she turned, as I am likely to behold out of Dublin. A minute afterwards, what should I see but the General and her walking off with my friend Fabos just as if they had known him all their lives.
“And may the great god Bacchus, to say nothing of the little divinities who preside over the baked meats, may they forgive him!” I cried to Barry Henshaw and the rest of the seven. “He has gone without leaving us the money for our supper, and ’tis two and tenpence halfpenny that stands for all the capital I have in this mortal world.”
We shook our heads in true sorrow, and buttoned our coats about us. In thirst we came, in thirst must we return.
“And for a bit of a colleen that I could put in my pocket,” says I, as we tramped from the hall.
But what the others said I will make no mention of, being a respecter of persons and of the King’s English—God bless him!