"
"I do, sir."
"Are you sure you do?"
"Sartin, sir."
"Silent as the grave then is the word in both cases--but if I ever
hear--"
"That's enough, Masther Hycy; when the grave spakes about it so will I."
Peety took the letters and disappeared with an air rendered important
by the trust reposed in him; whilst Mrs. Burke looked inquiringly at her
son, as if her curiosity were a good deal excited.
"One of them is to Kate or Kathleen Cavanagh, as they call her," said
Hycy, in reply to her looks; "and the other for Bryan M'Mahon, who is
soft and generous--_probatum est_. I want to know if he'll stand for
thirty-five--and as for Kate, I'm making love to her, you must know."
"Kathleen Cavanagh," replied his mother; "I'll never lend my privileges
to sich match."
"Match!" exclaimed Hycy, coolly.
"Ah," she replied warmly; "match or marriage will never--"
"Marriage!" he repeated, "why, my most amiable maternal relative, do
you mean to insinuate to Hycy the accomplished, that he is obliged to
propose either match or marriage to every girl he makes love to? What a
prosaic world you'd have of it, my dear Mrs. Burke. This, ma'am, is
only an agreeable flirtation--not but that it's possible there may
be something in the shape of a noose matrimonial dangling in the
background. She combines, no doubt, in her unrivalled person, the
qualities of Hebe, Venus, and Diana--Hebe in youth, Venus in beauty, and
Diana in wisdom; so it's said, but I trust incorrectly, as respects one
of them--good-bye, mother--try your influence as touching Crazy Jane,
and report favorably--
"'Friend of my soul, this goblet sip,
'Twill chase the pensive tear.
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