"Good night, dearest; think of--" The slam of the street door in my face spoiled the peroration, and I turned towards home.
By the time I reached the barracks, the united effects of the champagne, sherry, and Sheffield iron, had, in a good measure subsided, and my head had become sufficiently clear to permit a slight retrospect of the evening's amusement.
From two illusions I was at least awakened:--First, the high sheriff's ball was not the most accurate representation of high society; secondly, I was not deeply enamoured of Mary Anne Moriarty.

Strange as it may seem, and how little soever the apparent connexion between those two facts, the truth of one had a considerable influence in deciding the other.

N'importe, said I, the thing is over; it was rather good fun, too, upon the whole--saving the "chute des casseroles;" and as to the lady, she must have seen it was a joke as well as myself.

At least, so I am decided it shall be; and as there was no witness to our conversation, the thing is easily got out of.
The following day, as I was dressing to ride out, my servant announced no less a person than Mr.Mark Anthony Fitzpatrick, who said "that he came upon a little business, and must see me immediately." Mr.Fitzpatrick, upon being announced, speedily opened his negociation by asking in very terse and unequivocal phrase, my intentions regarding his sister-in-law.

After professing the most perfect astonishment at the question, and its possible import, I replied, that she was a most charming person, with whom I intended to have nothing whatever to do.
"And maybe you never proposed for her at the ball last night ?" "Propose for a lady at a ball the first time I ever met her!" "Just so.