“Me wife.”
“There 's no wife for you here,” said Mrs. Bilkins, somewhat taken aback. “His wife!” she thought; “it's a mother the poor boy stands in need of.”
“Me wife,” repeated Mr. O'Rourke, “for betther or for worse.”
“You had better go away,” said Mrs. Bilkins, bridling up, “or it will be the worse for you.”
“To have and to howld,” continued Mr. O'Rourke, wandering retrospectively in the mazes of the marriage service, “to have and to howld, till death—bad luck to him!—takes one or the ither of us.”
“You 're a blasphemous creature,” said Mrs. Bilkins, severely.
“Thim 's the words his riverince spake this mornin', standin' foreninst us,” explained Mr. O'Rourke. “I stood here, see, and me jew'l stood there, and the howly chaplain beyont.”
And Mr. O'Rourke with a wavering forefinger drew a diagram of the interesting situation on the door-step.
“Well,” returned Mrs. Bilkins, “if you 're a married man, all I have to say is, there's a pair of fools instead of one. You had better be off; the person you want does n't live here.”
“Bedad, thin, but she does.”