“A mask! isn't that, sir, a thing that people put on and off their face, according as it may suit them?”
“Just so, madam; you have exactly described it.”
“Oh, the divil a mask ever he made of it, then, for he never lays it aside at all. He has kept it on so steadily, that, I'll take my oath, if he was to throw, it off now, he wouldn't know himself in the looking-glass, it's so long since he got a glimpse of his own face.”
“Lord Cumber must be a happy man to have two such valuable agents upon his property.”
“Talkin' of Lord Cumber and his property, if you wish to know all about them, here's your man comin' over by the cross road here—he's goin' to M'Clutchy's I suppose, and, as you appear to be goin' in the same direction, I'll hand you over to him. Good morrow, Darby?”
“Good morrow, kindly, Poll, and—eh—who's this you've got wid you?” he continued, eyeing Susanna, “a stranger to me, any how. Well, Poll, and how are you?”
“There's no use in complainin', Darby; I'm middlin'—and how is yourself?”
“Throth, Poll, I've a lump in my stomach that I fear will settle me yet, if I don't get it removed somehow. But, sure, the hathens, I forgive them.” In the meantime he slyly rubbed his nose and winked both eyes, as he looked towards Susanna, as much as to say, “I know all.”
Poll, however, declined to notice the recognition, but renewed the discourse—
“Why, Darby, how did the lump come into your stomach? Faith, in these hard times, there's many a poor divel would be glad to have such a complaint—eh?”