Well, the Pope whispered to his head butler, and by-and-by up there comes an ould faggot ov a Caillean, that was enough to frighten a horse from his oats.
"Don't thry for to desave me," says his Riv'rence, "for it's no use, I tell yez. Send up the housekeeper, I bid yez: I seen her presarving gooseberries in the panthry as I came up: she has eyes as black as a sloe," says he, "and cheeks like the rose in June; and sorra taste ov this celestial mixthir shall crass the lips ov man or mortial this blessed night till she stirs the same up wid her own delicate little finger."
"Misther Maguire," says the Pope, "it's very unproper ov you to spake that way ov my housekeeper: I won't allow it, sir."
"Honor bright, your Holiness," says his Riv'rence, laying his hand on his heart.
"Oh, by this and by that, Misther Maguire," says the Pope, "I'll have none ov your insinivations: I don't care who sees my whole household," says he; "I don't care if all the faymales undher my roof was paraded down the High Street ov Room," says he.
"Oh, it's plain to be seen how little you care who sees them," says his Riv'rence. "You're afeared, now, if I was to see your housekeeper, that I'd say she was too handsome."
"No, I'm not!" says the Pope; "I don't care who sees her," says he. "Anthony," says he to the head butler, "bid Eliza throw her apron over her head, and come up here." Wasn't that stout in the blessed man? Well, my dear, up she came, stepping like a three-year-old, and blushing like the break o' day: for though her apron was thrown over her head as she came forrid, till you could barely see the tip ov her chin—more be token there was a lovely dimple in it, as I've been tould—yet she let it shlip a bit to one side, by chance like, jist as she got forninst the fire, and if she wouldn't have given his Riv'rence a shot if he hadn't been a priest, it's no matther.
"Now, my dear," says he, "you must take that skillet, and hould it over the fire till the milk comes to a blood-hate; and the way you'll know that will be by stirring it ons't or twice wid the little finger ov your right hand, afore you put in the butther: not that I misdoubt," says he, "but that the same finger's fairer nor the whitest milk that ever came from the tit."
"None ov your deludhering talk to the young woman, sir," says the Pope, mighty stern. "Stir the posset as he bids you, Eliza, and then be off wid yourself," says he.
"I beg your Holiness's pardon ten thousand times," says his Riv'rence; "I'm sure I meant nothing onproper; I hope I'm uncapable ov any sich dirilection ov my duty," says he. "But, marciful Saver!" he cried out, jumping up on a suddent, "look behind you, your Holiness—I'm blest but the room's on fire!"