“An' that's the very one she has in her eye for him, plase your Reverence—ha, ha, ha! What's the world widout a joke, Docthor? beggin' your pardon for makin' so free wid you.”
“Peter, you're still a wag,” replied the priest; “but, seriously, Mrs. Connell, have you selected any female, of respectable connections, as a likely person to be a wife for Dan?”
“Indeed no, your Reverence, I have not. Where could I pitch upon a girl—barrin' a Protestant, an' that 'ud never do—who has a fortune to meet what Dan's to get?”
The priest moved his chair a little, and drank their healths a second time.
“But you know, Mrs. Connell, that Dan needn't care so much about fortune, if he got a girl of respectable connections. He has an independence himself.”
“Thrue for you, father; but what right would any girl have to expect to be supported by the hard arnin' of me an' my husband, widout bringin' somethin' forrid herself? You know, sir, that the fortune always goes wid the wife; but am I to fortune off my son to a girl that has nothin'? If my son, plase your Reverence, hadn't a coat to his back, or a guinea in his pocket—as, God be praised, he has both—but, supposin' he hadn't, what right would he have to expect a girl wid a handsome fortune to marry him? There's Paddy Neil your sarvint-boy; now, if Paddy, who's an honest man's son, axed your niece, wouldn't you be apt to lose your timper?”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Connell, I think your fire's rather hot—allow me to drawback a little. Mrs. Connell, your health again!—Mr. Connell, your fireside!”
“Thank you, Docthor; but faith I think you ought hardly to dhrink the same fireside, becase it appears to be rather hot for your Reverence, at the present time—ha, ha, ha! Jokin' still, Docthor, we must be. Well, what harm! I wish we may never do worse!”
“And what fortune would you expect with a girl of genteel connexion—a girl that's accomplished, well say in music, plain work, and Irish, vernacularly?—hem! What fortune would you be expecting with such a girl?”
“Why, Docthor, ahagur, the only music I'd wish for my son's wife is a good timper; an' that's what their music-masthers can't tache thim. The plain work, although I don't know what you mane by it, sounds well enough; an' as to Irish, whick-whacku-larly, if you mane our own ould tongue, he may get thousands that can spake it whackinly, an' nothin' else.”