“And here they are, Sir Waldron,” quoth Quality.
“This is another of your cock-and-bull stories,” said the Baronet, returning to his chair. “What have we to do with this? Who is the third party?”
“The tinker, your worship,” observed Quality; “I suspect Batter knows him.”
“Truly so,” said Batter; “he's the father of Nancy Warton's two children; you'll find his name on record; it's written on the bonds;—a confirmed bad one in respect of—-”
“Tinker,” said Sir Waldron, assuming a most formidable aspect, “I now recollect your face. Moreover, 1 have heard that you have not yet quitted your evil ways: you had an affair of a similar sort to that which Batter speaks of, last month, at the sessions.—Fie upon you, man! Venial as this sort of sin may appear to you, to me it seems most grave,—nearly unpardonable. Why not take a wife?”
“That's just what I've said to him,” observed Doherty; “matrimony is the best of money,—it's pure felicity.”
“Are you married, fellow?” inquired Sir Waldron, who felt by no means pleased at the Irishman's interruption.
“Is it married, your worship?” replied Darby; “faith! then, I am, every inch of me.”
“And where's your wife?”
“Why, then, I left her this morning eleven miles hence.”