Tim winked, and jerked his thumb once more.
"Speak, ye ugly divil, or by heavens I'll spoil your beauty for you!"
"Your sisther!" cried Tim, with a rumbling subterraneous laugh.
"Me sisther, man?"
"Ay, yer honour," said the scamp, who, as O'Hara's foster-brother, was well aware that his master boasted no such gentle tie. "Sure she's heard your honour's wounded, and she's come to visit you. 'I'm Misther O'Hara's sister,' says she——"
"And am I not?" cried a sweet voice behind him, "or, if not, at least a very, very dear cousin, and, in any case, I must see Mr. O'Hara at once, and alone."
"To be sure," cried O'Hara, eagerly rising in every way to the situation, and leaping forward. "Show in the lady, you villain!—Oh, my darling!" cried the Irishman, opening generous arms, "but I am glad to see ye!—Tim, you scoundrel, shut the door behind you!"
The visitor was much enveloped, besides being masked. But there was not a moment's hesitation in the ardour of Mr. O'Hara's welcome.
"Sir, sir!" cried a faint voice from behind the folds of lace, "what conduct is this?"
"Oh, sisther darling, sure, me heart's been hungering for you! Another kiss, me dear, dear cousin!"