"Then her church was in the Diocese of Down," said the doctor.
"That's good, docthor—indeed, that's good. 'She was caught in bed,' says I; and 'It's the diocese of Down,' says you: 'faith, that's good. I wish the diocese was your own; for you're funny enough to be a bishop, docthor, you lay howld of everything."
"That's a great qualification for a mitre, ma'am," said the doctor.
"And the poor young man that has got her is not worth a farthing, I hear, docthor."
"Then he must be the curate, ma'am; though I don't think it's a chapel of ease he has got into."
"Oh! what a tongue you have, docthor," said she, laughing; "'faith you'll kill me."
"That's my profession, ma'am. I am a licentiate of the Royal College; but, unfortunately for me, my humanity is an overmatch for my science. Phrenologically speaking, my benevolence is large, and my destructiveness and acquisitiveness small."
"Ah, there you go off on another tack; and what a funny new thing that is you talk of!—that free knowledge or crow-knowledge, or whatever sort of knowledge you call it. And there's one thing I want to ask you about: there's a bump the ladies have, the gentlemen always laugh at, I remark."
"That's very rude of them, ma'am," said the doctor drily. "Is it in the anterior region, or the——"
"Docthor, don't talk queer."