"Fwhy it isn't whor sale, my lady," replied Phil, evading the former
question; "the masther here, Gad bless him an' spare him to you,
ma'am!--thrath, an' it's his four quarthers that knew how to pick out
a wife, any how, whor beauty an' all hanerable whormations o'
grandheur--so he did; an' well he desarves you, my lady: faix, it's a
fine houseful o' thim you'll have, plase Gad--an' fwhy not? whin it's
all in the coorse o' Providence, bein' both so handsome:--he gev me a
pound note whor her my ladyship, an' his own plisure aftherwards; an'
I'm now waitin' to be ped."

"What kind of a country is Ireland, as I understand you are an
Irishman?"

"Thrath, my lady, it's like fwhat maybe you never seen--a fool's purse,
ten guineas goin' out whor one that goes in."

"Upon my word that's wit," observed the young blue-stocking.

"What's your opinion of Irishwomen?" the lady continued; "are they
handsomer than the English ladies, think you?"

"Murdher, my lady," says Phil, raising his caubeen, and scratching his
head in pretended perplexity, with his linger and thumb, "fwhat am I to
say to that, ma'am, and all of yez to the fwhore? But the sarra one av
me will give it agin the darlin's beyant."

"But which do you think the more handsome?"

"Thrath, I do, my lady; the Irish and English women would flog the
world, an' sure it would be a burnin' shame to go to sot them agin one