"Is not that an Irish tune ?" Vane groaned.

He covered his face with his hands, and hissed out: "It is her favorite tune." "Aha!" said Pomander.

"Follow me!" They crept up the stairs, Pomander in advance; they heard the signs of an Irish orgie--a rattling jig played and danced with the inspiriting interjections of that frolicsome nation.

These sounds ceased after a while, and Pomander laid his hand on his friend's shoulder.
"I prepare you," said he, "for what you are sure to see.

This woman was an Irish bricklayer's daughter, and 'what is bred in the bone never comes out of the flesh;' you will find her sitting on some Irishman's knee, whose limbs are ever so much stouter than yours.