'I was plucking the drowned body of a song out of the waters to give it decent burial.

And if I sing I shall be charged with casting a firebrand at Mr.Rockney.' Rockney assured him that he could listen to anything in verse.
'Observe the sneer:--for our verses are smoke,' said Con.
Miss Mattock pressed him to sing.
But he had saddened his mind about old Ireland: the Irish news weighed heavily on him, unrelieved by a tussle with Rockney.

If he sang, it would be an Irish song, and he would break down in it, he said; and he hinted at an objection of his wife's to spirited Irish songs of the sort which carry the sons of Erin bounding over the fences of tyranny and the brook of tears.

And perhaps Mr.Rockney might hear a tale in verse as hard to bear as he sometimes found Irish prose!--Miss Mattock perceived that his depression was genuine, not less than his desire to please her.
'Then it shall be on another occasion,' she said.
'Oh! on another occasion I'm the lark to the sky, my dear lady.' Her carriage was announced.

She gave Patrick a look, with a smile, for it was to be a curious experiment.