“Only his own word. Miss Goodwin! Do you imply by that, that his own word requires corroboration?”
Alice blushed again, and felt confused.
“I assure you, Mr. Woodward,” said O'Connor, “that when my word requires corroboration, I always corroborate it myself.”
“But, according to Miss Goodwin's account of it, sir, that's not likely to add much to its authenticity.”
“Well, Mr. Woodward,” said O'Connor, with the greatest suavity of manner, “I'll tell you my method under such circumstances; whenever I meet a gentleman that doubts my word, I always make him eat his onion.
“There's nothing new or wonderful in that,” replied the other; “it has been my own practice during life.”
“What? to eat your own words!” exclaimed O'Connor, purposely mistaking him; “very windy feeding, faith. Upon my honor and conscience, in that case, your complaint must be nothing else but the colic, and not love at all. Try peppermint wather, Mr. Woodward.”
Alice saw at once, but could not account for the fact, that the worthy gentlemen were cutting at each other, and the timid girl became insensibly alarmed at the unaccountable sharpness of their brief encounter. She looked with an anxious countenance, first at one, and then at the other, but scarcely knew what to say. Woodward, however, who was better acquainted with the usages of society, and the deference due to the presence of women, than the brusque, but somewhat fiery Milesian, now said, with a smile and a bow to that gentleman:
“Sir, I submit; I am vanquished. If you are as successful in love as you are in banter, I should not wish to enter the list against you.
“Faith, sir,” replied O'Connor, with a poor-humored laugh, “if your sword is as sharp as your wit, you'd be an ugly customer to meet in a quarrel.”