“Well, Nickey, or Nick, or whatever it may be, I am sorry to say that you won't do. You are too great an ornament to your own creed ever to shine in ours. I happen to know your character—begone.”
“Is Misthre Lucre widin?” asked a third candidate, whose wife accompanied him—“if he is, maybe you'd tell him that one Barney Grattan wishes to have a thrifle o' speech wid his honor.”
“Come in,” said the servant with a smile, after having acquainted his master.
The man and his wife accordingly entered, having first wiped their feet as they had been ordered.
“Well, my good man, what's your business.”
“Rosha, will you let his honor know what we wor spakin' about? She'll tell you, sir.”
“Plaise your honor,” said she, “we're convarts.”
“Well,” said Mr. Lucre, “that is at least coming to the point. And pray, my good woman, who converted you?”
“Faix, the accounts that's abroad, sir, about the gintleman from Dublin, that's so full of larnin', your reverance, and so rich, they say.”
“Then it was the mere accounts that wrought this change in you?”