"Gentlemen doesn't like clanin' times, Miss Flanagan," Mrs. Murphy observed, as she seated herself.
"Indeed, they're contrairy cratures, like all men. They like claneness, but they don't like to be claned. See how they're always moppin' themselves in could baths enough to give them their end, and yet water about their rooms is somethin' they can't endure. When I was at Lord Carrickmines's, the housekeeper put me, as it might be you, ma'am, to pelt an ould bucket o' water round his lordship's studio. He was a hasty man, an' he caught sight o' me enterin' the door—oh, bedad! he took the ould blunderbuss an' promised me the contints of it if I didn't quit."
"The master here's rale quiet, though. He won't be for murdherin' you, glory be to goodness!"
"I daresay he'll raise a pillalew all the time," said Bridget philosophically, "but 'tis no use mindin' him."
"Yez have great preparations anyway, an' people's comfort all out o' the windy. I suppose 'tis a rale grand young gentleman yez are gettin'?"
"Well enough, well enough," said Bridget loftily. "He's what ye call a baronite."
"Rowlin' in gould, I suppose?"
"Well, then, ma'am, I was never curious enough to ax his fortin'."
Undeterred by this glaring snub, Mrs. Murphy went on placidly:
"He'll be a fine match for wan o' the young ladies."