“But what mystery is there in all this?” said his master.
“Mysthery, sir—why, where was there ever a widow since the creation of Peter White, that hadn't more or less of mysthery about her?”
“Well, but what was the mystery here?” asked the other. “I do not perceive any, so far.”
“Take your time, sir,” replied Dandy; “it's comin'. The young performer on the Pandeans that I tould you of wasn't more than five or six at the most, but a woman over the way, that I made inquiries of, tould me the length o' time the husband was dead. Do you undherstand the mysthery now, sir?”
“Go on,” replied the other; “I am amused by you; but I don't see the mystery, notwithstanding. What was the result?”
“I tell you the truth—she was a fine, comely, fiaghoola woman; and as I heard she had the shiners, I began to think I might do worse.”
“I thought the girl called Alley Mahon was your favorite?”
“So she is, sir—that is, she's one o' them: but, talkin' o' favorites, I am seldom without half-a-dozen.”
“Very liberal, indeed, Dandy; but I wish to hear the upshot.”
“Why, sir, we had a cup o' tay together yestherday evenin', and, between you and me, I began, as it might be, to get fond of her. She's very pretty, sir; but I must say, that the man who marries her will get a mouth, plaise goodness, that he must kiss by instalments. Faith, if it could be called property, he might boast that his is extensive; and divil a mistake in it.”