“How is that, Dandy?”

“Why, sir, I gave out that you’re young and handsome, God pardon me.”

“How, sirra,” said his master, laughing, “do you mean to say that I am not?”

“Well, sir, wait till you hear, and then you may answer yourself; as for me, afther what I’ve seen, I’ll not undertake to give an opinion on the subject.  I suppose I’m an ugly fellow myself, and yet I know a sartin fair one that’s not of that opinion—­ahem!”

“Make yourself intelligible in the meantime,” said his master:  “I don’t properly understand you.”

“That’s just what the Mrs. Nortons say, your honor.  ’I don’t understand you, sir;’ and that is bekaise you keep me in the dark, and that I can’t explain to them properly what you want; divil a thing but an oracle you’ve made of me.  But as to beauty—­only listen, sir.  This mornin’ there came a woman to me wid a thin, sharp face, a fiery eye that looked as if she had a drop in it, or was goin’ to fight a north-wester, and a thin, red nose that was nothing else than a stunner.  She was, moreover, a good deal of the gentleman on the upper lip—­not to mention two or three separate plantations of the same growth on different parts of the chin.  Altogether, I was very much struck with her appearance.”

“You are too descriptive, Dandy,” said his master, after enjoying the description, however; “come to the point.”

“Ay, that’s just what she said,” replied Dandy, “coaxing the point of her nose wid her finger and thumb:  ‘Come to the point,’ said she; ‘mention the services your master requires from me.’

“‘From you,’ says I, lookin’ astonished, as you may suppose—­’from you, ma’am?’

“‘Yes, my good man, from me; I’m Mrs. Norton.’

“‘Are you indeed, ma’am?’ says I; ’I hope you’re well, Mrs. Norton.  My master will be delighted to see you.’

“‘What kind of a man is he?’ she asked.

“‘Young and handsome, ma’am,’ says I; ‘quite a janious in beauty.’

“‘Well,’ says my lady, ’so far so good; I’m young and handsome myself, as you see, and I dare say we’ll live happily enough together;’ and as she spoke, she pushed up an old bodice that was tied round something that resembled a dried skeleton, which it only touched at points, like a reel in a bottle, strivin’, of course, to show off a good figure; she then winked both eyes, as if she was meetin’ a cloud o’ dust, and agin shuttin’ one, as if she was coverin’ me wid a rifle, whispered, ’You’ll find me generous maybe, if you desarve it.  I’ll increase your allowances afther our marriage.’

“‘Thanks, ma’am,’ says I, ‘but my masther isn’t a marryin’ man—­unfortunately, he is married; still,’ says I, recoverin’ myself—­for it struck me that she might be the right woman, afther all—­’although he’s married, his wife’s an invalid; so that it likely you may be the lady still.  Were you ever in France, ma’am?’

“‘No,’ says she, tossing up the stunner I spoke of, ’I never was in Prance; but I was in Tipperary, if that would sarve him.’