“Last! why wouldn't it last, woman alive? Well, begad, after all, 'tis not every other man, any way—”
“Whisht, now,” said Margaret, interrupting him, “you're beginnin' to praise yourself.”
“Well, I won't then; I'm going down the town to have a glass or two o' cordial wid young Tom Whiskey, in Barney Scaddhan's.”
“Art,” she replied, somewhat solemnly, “the very name of Barney Scaddhan sickens me. I know we ought to forgive every one, as we hope to be forgiven ourselves; but still, Art, if I was in your shoes, the sorra foot ever I'd put inside his door. Think of the way he trated you; ah, Art acushla, where's the pride of the ould blood now?”
“Hut, woman, divil a one o' me ever could keep in bad feelin' to any one. Troth, Barney of late's as civil a crature as there's alive; sure what you spake of was all my own fault and not his; I'll be back in an hour or so.”
“Well,” said his wife, “there's one thing, Art, that every one knows.”
“What is that, Margaret?”
“Why, that a man's never safe in bad company.”
“But sure, what harm can they do me, when we drink nothing that can injure us?”
“Well, then,” said she, “as that's the case, can't you as well stay with good company as bad?”