“Will they, by G––––!” said Barry, and he rushed to the door, which he banged open; finding no victim outside on whom to exercise his wrath—“let me catch ’em!” and he returned to his position by the fire.
Anty had sat down on a sofa that stood by the wall opposite the fireplace, and Barry remained for a minute, thinking how he’d open the campaign. At last he began:
“Anty, look you here, now. What scheme have you got in your head?—You’d better let me know, at once.”
“What schame, Barry?”
“Well—what schame, if you like that better.”
“I’ve no schame in my head, that I know of—at laist—” and then Anty blushed. It would evidently be easy enough to make the poor girl tell her own secret.
“Well, go on—at laist—”
“I don’t know what you mane, Barry. Av’ you’re going to be badgering me again, I’ll go away.”
“It’s evident you’re going to do something you’re ashamed of, when you’re afraid to sit still, and answer a common question. But you must answer me. I’m your brother, and have a right to know. What’s this you’re going to do?’ He didn’t like to ask her at once whether she was going to get married. It might not be true, and then he would only be putting the idea into her head. ‘Well,—why don’t you answer me? What is it you’re going to do?”
“Is it about the property you mane, Barry?”