"Then it's schames there's divil a doubt of that."

"It is schames, as you say, Martin," said Daly, slapping him on the
shoulder--"fine schames--no less than a wife with four hundred a-year!
Wouldn't that be a fine schame?"

"'Deed it would, Mr Daly, av' the wife and the fortune were honestly
come by."

"And isn't it a hundred pities that I must come and upset such a pretty
schame as that? But, for all that, it's thrue. I'm sorry for you,
Martin, but you must give up Anty Lynch."

"Give her up, is it? Faith I haven't got her to give up, worse luck."

"Nor never will, Martin; and that's worse luck again."

"Well, Mr Daly, av' that's all you've come to say, you might have saved
yourself car-hire. Miss Lynch is nothing to me, mind; how should she
be? But av' she war, neither Barry Lynch--who's as big a rogue as there
is from this to hisself and back again--nor you, who, I take it, ain't
rogue enough to do Barry's work, wouldn't put me off it."

"Well, Martin; thank 'ee for the compliment. But now, you know what
I've come about, and there's no joke in it. Of course I don't want you
to tell me anything of your plans; but, as Mr Lynch's lawyer, I must
tell you so much as this of his:--that, if his sister doesn't lave
the inn, and honestly assure him that she'll give up her intention of
marrying you, he's determined to take proceedings." He then fumbled in