Mrs Prothero was rubbing her hands and crying pitifully; more from fear of her husband's wrath than from sorrow for Owen, because she had anticipated a sudden flight.
Mr Prothero began to stamp with rage. It was a long time before he could speak, and his wife had a certain fear that he would choke. At last words found vent.
'The impudent, lying, hypocritical, young baggage! The ungrateful, disobedient, good-for-nothing brute! Ach a fi! upon 'em both. That's what you get by harbouring Irish beggars!—that's the return they make! A pale-faced, deceitful hussy!'
'Davy, bach! they are not gone together,' said Mrs Prothero, half-believing at the same time that they were.
'Shall I lay breakfast, ma'am?' interrupted Shanno, putting her head in at the door and grinning suspiciously.
'Go your way, and mind your own business,' said Mr Prothero.
Shanno disappeared.
'I'll go out and see whether either of the horses is gone. Go you and make breakfast—the good-for-nothing—'
'Just let me tell you first what Owen said to me last night,' said Mrs Prothero. 'I don't think he ever deceived us, Davy; and if he did wrong, he was never the one to hide it.'
'Treue for you! Well, what did the young scamp say? I don't blame him half as much as that meek, pale-faced, still-water thing, who's as deep as the north star, I'll be bound.'