Phelim and Peggy having each emptied the egg-shell, which among the poorer Irish is frequently the substitute for a glass, entered into the following sentimental dialogue, which was covered by the loud and entangled conversation of their friends about the fire; Phelim's arm lovingly about her neck, and his head laid down snugly against her cheek.
“Now, Peggy, you darlin' o' the world—bad cess to me but I'm as glad as two ten-pennies that I levelled these piatees; there was no sittin' an them. Eh, avourneen?”
“Why, we're comfortable now, anyhow, Phelim!”
“Faith, you may say that—(a loving squeeze). Now, Peggy, begin an' tell us all about your bachelors.”
“The sarra one ever I had, Phelim.”
“Oh, murdher sheery, what a bounce! Bad cess to me, if you can spake a word o' thruth afther that, you common desaver! Worn't you an' Paddy Moran pullin' a coard?”
“No, in throth; it was given out on us, but we never wor, Phelim. Nothin' ever passed betune us but common civility. He thrated my father an' mother wanst to share of half a pint in the Lammas Fair, when I was along wid them; but he never broke discoorse wid me barrin', as I sed, in civility an' friendship.”
“An' do you mane to put it down my throath that you never had a sweetheart at all?”
“The nerra one.”
“Oh, you thief! Wid two sich lips o' your own, an' two sich eyes o' your own, an' two sich cheeks o' your own! Oh,—, by the tarn, that won't pass.”