"And what was the lady's name?" cried Mr. Darling. "Out with it, man! Out with it! What was her name?"
"Name o' the lady? Lady's name? Her name? Sure, sir, it bes Nora."
"Nora! Don't you mean Flora?"
"Aye, Flora. Sure, sir, Flora bes what I said."
"God!" exclaimed Mr. Darling, leaning back in his chair. Dick Lynch smiled across at him. He recovered himself in a minute.
"With a beautiful voice, you say?" he queried faintly.
"Aye, sir. Sure, didn't she sing a song afore the Queen herself," returned Dick.
"It is Flora!" cried the other. "My God, it is Flora!" Then gripping Lynch again, "Did you say—did you say she—she is—well?" he whispered.
"Sure, I telled ye she bes well," replied the befuddled fisherman. "Well, d'ye say? Aye, she bes plump as a pa'tridge, a-livin' on the fat o' the land—the fat o' all the wracks that comes up from the sea. An' a beauty she bes, altogether. Saints presarve ye, sir, she bes the beautifulest female woman ever come ashore on that coast. She was desperate bad wid the fever, was Nora, when first the skipper took her home wid him; but now she bes plump as a young swile, sir, an' too beautiful entirely for the likes o' meself to look at."
Mr. Darling's face went white again.