“Well then, I b’lieve it’s past one, yer honer.”
“The d––––l it is! I’ve such a headache. I was screwed last night; eh, Terry?”
“I b’lieve yer war, yer honer.”
“What o’clock was it when I went to bed?”
“Well then, I don’t rightly know, Mr Barry; it wasn’t only about ten when I tuk in the last hot wather, and I didn’t see yer honer afther that.”
“Well; tell Miss Anty to make me a cup of tea, and do you bring it up here.” This was a feeler. If anything was the matter with Anty, Terry would be sure to tell him now; but he only said, “Yis, yer honer,” and retreated.
Barry now comforted himself with the reflection that there was no great harm done, and that though, certainly, there had been some row between him and Anty, it would probably blow over; and then, also, he began to reflect that, perhaps, what he had said and done, would frighten her out of her match with Kelly.
In the meantime. Terry went into the kitchen, with the news that “masther was awake, and axing for tay.” Biddy had considered herself entitled to remain all the morning at the inn, having, in a manner, earned a right to be idle for that day, by her activity during the night; and the other girl had endeavoured to enjoy the same luxury, for she had been found once or twice during the morning, ensconced in the kitchen, under Sally’s wing; but Mrs Kelly had hunted her back, to go and wait on her master, giving her to understand that she would not receive the whole household.
“And ye’re afther telling him where Miss Anty’s gone, Terry?” inquired the injured fair one.
“Divil a tell for me thin,—shure, he may find it out hisself, widout my telling him.”