Dora (reads). "If yees don't recave this lether, or can't rade it, niver moind: ye'll know that all that's in it is the truth, an' nades nather radin' or writin' to till the same. So name the day, Katy darlin', whin me single blissidniss is to exphire, an' the mathrimoonial noose shlipped over the hid of yees lovin' and consolin'
Patsy Dolan.
"P.S.—These last lines are the poethry uv love.
"Second P.S.—To be rid fhirst. I inclose a ring for yees finger, which same yees will find in me nixt lether." That's all, Katy. (Hands back letter.)
Katy. It's jist illigant. I'm obleeged to yees.
Dora (takes shawl from chair). Quite welcome, Katy. When you get ready to name the day, I'll answer it for you. But be quick, Katy; for the poor fellow will not live long on "only his thray males a day, an' his pipe an' tobacyer." (Runs off C. to L.)
Katy (looks at letter). Sure it's a darlin' lether, an' Patsy Dolan's a broth uv a bye.
Enter R., Gyp.
Gyp. Ah, dar you is, Katy! Whar's de misses? Whar's Miss Becky? Whar's eberybody?