“An' what about them?” inquired Mrs. O'Brien; “do you dar to mintion them in the same day together?”
“Why not,” said the miser; “ay, an' on the same night, too?”
“Upon my reputaytion, Mr. O'Donovan, you're extramely kind—now be a little more so, and let us undherstand you,” said the Bodagh.
“Poor Una!” thought John, “all's lost; he will get himself kicked out to a certainty.”
“I think it's time we got them married,” replied Fardorougha; “the sooner it's done the better, and the safer for both o' them; especially for the colleen.”
“Dar a Lorha, he's cracked,” said Mrs. O'Brien; “sorra one o' the poor soul but's cracked about his money.”
“Poor sowl, woman alive! wor you never poor yourself?”
“Yis I wor; an' I'm not ashamed to own it; but, Chierna, Frank,” she added, addressing her husband, “there's no use in spakin' to him.”
“Fardorougha,” said O'Brien, seriously, “what brought you here?”
“Why, to tell you an' your wife the state that my son, Connor, and your daughter's in about one another; an' to advise you both, if you have sinse, to get them married afore worse happen. It's your business more nor mine.”