She was indubitably a fine animal—a handsome face, a splendid figure, and the most magnificent head of auburn hair imaginable. On Captain O’Boyle announcing me as “his friend, Captain Fitzmaurice,” Miss Flora made a rapid inspection of my outer man from top to toe, and then, as if satisfied with the survey, she gave me a hand, white as alabaster, which I took respectfully in mine.
“How are you, Pat?—Isn’t it Pat they call ye?” said the lady. “Why the devil don’t ye shake my hand?—you take it as gingerly in yours, as if ye had hold of a hot poker. What do ye ride? Can you manage twelve stone without wasting, and on a ten-pound saddle?”
“What a question at first sight?” I mentally ejaculated. “Ah! Lucy, my absent love, were thou and I together, ours would be a softer theme than ten-pound saddles!”
[Original]
“Will you play brag?” she continued.
I shook my head.
“So much the better. That old tabby, in black velvet, would cheat her father; and she, in the blue turban, rob a church. They play into each other’s hands—client first, divide afterwards; they would do you brown’ to a moral in half an hour.”’
“Oh! Flora, Flora,” exclaimed her companion; “how can you say such horrid things?”