And it was the nixt mornin', sure, jist as I was making up me mind whither
it wouldn't be the purlite thing to sind a bit o' writin' to the widdy by
way of a love-litter, when up com'd the delivery servant wid an illigant
card, and he tould me that the name on it (for I niver could rade the
copperplate printin on account of being lift handed) was all about
Mounseer, the Count, A Goose, Look -- aisy, Maiter-di-dauns, and that the
houl of the divilish lingo was the spalpeeny long name of the little ould
furrener Frinchman as lived over the way.

And jist wid that in cum'd the little willian himself, and then he made me
a broth of a bow, and thin he said he had ounly taken the liberty of doing
me the honor of the giving me a call, and thin he went on to palaver at a
great rate, and divil the bit did I comprehind what he wud be afther the
tilling me at all at all, excipting and saving that he said "pully wou,
woolly wou," and tould me, among a bushel o' lies, bad luck to him, that
he was mad for the love o' my widdy Misthress Tracle, and that my widdy
Mrs. Tracle had a puncheon for him.

At the hearin' of this, ye may swear, though, I was as mad as a
grasshopper, but I remimbered that I was Sir Pathrick O'Grandison,
Barronitt, and that it wasn't althegither gentaal to lit the anger git the
upper hand o' the purliteness, so I made light o' the matter and kipt
dark, and got quite sociable wid the little chap, and afther a while what
did he do but ask me to go wid him to the widdy's, saying he wud give me
the feshionable inthroduction to her leddyship.

"Is it there ye are?" said I thin to mesilf, "and it's thrue for you,
Pathrick, that ye're the fortunittest mortal in life. We'll soon see now
whither it's your swate silf, or whither it's little Mounseer