"Don't say your heart's broke, my sweet landlady—my darling Mrs. Fay! the apple of my eye you are."
"Nonsense, Misther Doyle."
"True as the sun, moon, and stars. Apple of my eye, did I say?—I'd give the apples of my eyes to make sauce for the cockles of your heart. Mrs. Fay, darling, don't be coy. Ha! I have you fast!" and he gripped the table closer.
"Well, you are dhrunk, Misther Doyle," said Tim.
"I hope my breath is not offensive from drink, Mrs. Fay," said Doyle, in an amatory whisper to the leg of the table.
"Ah, get out o' that, Misther Doyle," said Tim; accompanying the exclamation with a good shake, which somewhat roused the prostrate form.
"Who's there?"
"I want you to come to bed, sir;—eh, don't be so foolish, Misther Doyle. Sure you don't think the misthress would be rowlin' on the flure there wid you, as dhrunk as a pig——"
"Dare not wound her fame! Who says a word of Mrs. Fay?"
"Arrah, sure you're talkin' there about her this half-hour."