Matty laughed while Andy was picking himself up with increased confusion at this mishap; for even amidst rustics there is nothing more humiliating than a lover placing himself in a ridiculous position at the moment he is doing his best to make himself agreeable.
“It is well your coat's not new,” said Matty, with a contemptuous look at Handy's weather-beaten vestment.
“I hope I'll soon have a betther,” said Andy, a little piqued, with all his reverence for the heiress, at this allusion to his poverty. “But sure it wasn't the coat you married, but the man that's in it; and sure I'll take off my clothes as soon as you please, Matty, my dear—Miss Dwyer, I mane—I beg your pardon.”
“You had better wait till you get better,” answered Matty, very drily. “You know the old saying, 'Don't throw out your dirty wather until you get in fresh.'”
“Ah, darlin', don't be cruel to me!” said Andy, in a supplicating tone. “I know I'm not desarvin' of you, but sure I did not make so bowld as to make up to you until I seen that nobody else would have you.”
“Nobody else have me!” exclaimed Matty, as her eyes flashed with anger.
“I beg your pardon, miss,” said poor Andy, who in the extremity of his own humility had committed such an offence against Matty's pride. “I only meant that—”
“Say no more about it,” said Matty, who recovered her equanimity. “Didn't my father give you the lase of the field and house?”
“Yis, miss.”
“You had better let me keep it then; 'twill be safer with me than you.”