_Phil._ And welcome! What? But first, see! isn’t there an elegant pair of boots, that fits a leg like wax?--There’s what’ll plase Car’line Flaherty, I’ll engage. But what ails you, Honor?--you look as if your own heart was like to break. Are not you for the fair to-day?--and why not? _Honor._ Oh! rasons. (_Aside_) Now I can’t speak. _Phil._ Speak on, for I’m dumb and all ear--speak up, dear--no fear of the father’s coming out, for he’s leaving his _bird_ (i.e. beard) in the bason, and that’s a work of time with him.--Tell all to your own Phil. _Honor._ Why then I won’t go to the fair--because--better keep myself to myself, out of the way of meeting them that mightn’t be too plasing to my father. _Phil._ And might be too plasing to somebody else--Honor McBride. _Honor._ Oh, Phil, dear! But only promise me, brother, dearest, if you would this day meet any of the Rooneys-- _Phil._ That means Randal Rooney. _Honor._ No, it was his mother Catty was in my head. _Phil._ A bitterer scould never was!--nor a bigger lawyer in petticoats, which is an abomination. _Honor._ ‘Tis not pritty, I grant; but her heart’s good, if her temper would give it fair play. But will you promise me, Phil, whatever she says--you won’t let her provoke you this day. _Phil._ How in the name of wonder will I hinder her to give me provocation? and when the spirit of the McBrides is up-- _Honor._ But don’t lift a hand. _Phil._ Against a woman?--no fear--not a finger against a woman. _Honor._ But I say not against any Rooney, man or woman. Oh, Phil! dear, don’t let there be any fighting betwixt the McBride and Rooney factions. _Phil._ And how could I hinder if I would? The boys will be having a row, especially when they get the spirits--and all the better. _Honor._ To be drinking! Oh! Phil, the mischief that drinking does! _Phil._ Mischief! Quite and clane the contrary--when the shillelah’s up, the pike’s down. ‘Tis when there’d be no fights at fairs, and all sober, then there’s rason to dread mischief. No man, Honor, dare be letting the whiskey into his head, was there any mischief in his heart. _Honor._ Well, Phil, you’ve made it out now cliverly. So there’s most danger of mischief when men’s sober--is that it? _Phil._ Irishmen?--ay; for sobriety is not the nat’ral state of the _craturs_; and what’s not nat’ral is hypocritical, and a hypocrite is, and was, and ever will be my contempt. _Honor._ And mine too. But-- _Phil._ But here’s my hand for you, Honor. They call me a beau and a buck, a slasher and dasher, and flourishing Phil. All that I am, may be; but there’s one thing I am not, and will never be--and that’s a bad brother to you. So you have my honour, and here’s my oath to the back of it. By all the pride of man and all the consate of woman--where will you find a bigger oath?--happen what will, this day, I’ll not lift my hand against Randal Rooney! _Honor._ Oh, thanks! warm from the heart. But here’s my father--and where’s breakfast?