“It ain’t the family then, you’re fond of, Martin!  And I wondher at that, considering how old Sim loved us all.”

“Niver mind Sim, John! he’s dead and gone; and av’ he niver did a good deed before, he did one when he didn’t lave all his cash to that precious son of his, Barry Lynch.”

“You’re prepared for squalls with Barry, I suppose?”

“He’ll have all the squalling on his own side, I’m thinking, John.  I don’t mane to squall, for one.  I don’t see why I need, with L400 a-year in my pocket, and a good wife to the fore.”

“The L400 a-year’s good enough, av’ you touch it, certainly,” said the man of law, thinking of his own insufficient guinea a-week, “and you must look to have some throuble yet afore you do that.  But as to the wife—­why, the less said the better—­eh, Martin?

“Av’ it’s not asking too much, might I throuble you, sir, to set anywhere else but on my shouldher?” This was addressed to a very fat citizen, who was wheezing behind Martin, and who, to escape suffocation in the crowd, was endeavouring to raise himself on his neighbour’s shoulders.  “And why the less said the better?—­I wish yourself may never have a worse.”

“I wish I mayn’t, Martin, as far as the cash goes; and a man like me might look a long time in Dublin before he got a quarter of the money.  But you must own Anty’s no great beauty, and she’s not over young, either.”

“Av’ she’s no beauty, she’s not downright ugly, like many a girl that gets a good husband; and av’ she’s not over young, she’s not over old.  She’s not so much older than myself, after all.  It’s only because her own people have always made nothing of her; that’s what has made everybody else do the same.”

“Why, Martin, I know she’s ten years older than Barry, and Barry’s older than you!”

“One year; and Anty’s not full ten years older than him.  Besides, what’s ten years between man and wife?”

“Not much, when it’s on the right side.  But it’s the wrong side with you, Martin!”

“Well, John, now, by virtue of your oath, as you chaps say, wouldn’t you marry a woman twice her age, av’ she’d half the money?—­Begad you would, and leap at it!”

“Perhaps I would.  I’d a deal sooner have a woman eighty than forty.  There’d be some chance then of having the money after the throuble was over!  Anty’s neither ould enough nor young enough.”

“She’s not forty, any way; and won’t be yet for five years and more; and, as I hope for glory, John—­though I know you won’t believe me—­I wouldn’t marry her av’ she’d all Sim Lynch’s ill-gotten property, instead of only half, av’ I wasn’t really fond of her, and av’ I didn’t think I’d make her a good husband.”

“You didn’t tell mother what you’re afther, did you?”

“Sorrow a word!  But she’s so ’cute she partly guesses; and I think Meg let slip something.  The girls and Anty are thick as thiefs since old Sim died; though they couldn’t be at the house much since Barry came home, and Anty daren’t for her life come down to the shop.”