A bell pealing through the house confirmed his observation.
"It's a woman! By the powers, it's a woman! Tim, Tim, ye devil!" roared Mr. O'Hara, "come to me this minute, or I'll brain ye."
Conscious of his invalid negligé, he rose in his chair; but, curiosity proving stronger than decorum, was unable to tear himself from his post of vantage at the window.
"Oh! the doaty little foot!" he cried in rapture, as arched pink-silk instep and a brocade slipper of daintiest proportion emerged, in a little cloud of lace, from the dim recesses of the chair, upon his delighted vision.
He turned for a moment to bellow again into the room:
"Tim, you limb of Satan, where are you at all? Sure, I'm not fit to be seen by any lady, let alone such a foot as that!"
When he popped his head once more through the window, only the chairmen occupied the street.
"It's for the ground floor, of course; for the French marquis," said O'Hara, and sat down, feeling as flat as a pancake.
The next instant a knock at the door sent the quick blood flying to the red head. The "limb of Satan," more generally known as Tim Mahoney, an ingratiating, untidy fellow, with a cunning leer and a coaxing manner, stood ogling his master on the threshold; then he jerked with his thumb several times over his shoulder, and grinned with exquisite enjoyment.
"What is it?" said O'Hara fiercely.