“Goodness preserve us, Mrs. Doran! what does this mean? What has become of all the money for our poor people?”
“Become?” she repeated. “Some was spent in their interest; the balance is in your hand—a cheque on the Munster Bank.”
“But surely to goodness——” he reiterated.
“There are my accounts,” she interrupted angrily. The lady was not prepared for this inquisition, and believed that the two men would thankfully accept her largesse and so depart.
“I certainly understood that the refreshments were provided gratis,” put in Mr. West, with unprecedented courage.
“Pray who said so? I’m sure I never did. See, it is merely stated,” snatching up a programme, “There will be refreshments.”
A pause. Yes; the fact was patent; the statement had involved no promise; the matter had been understood, taken for granted, but Mrs. Doran never permitted anything to be taken from her.
“Surely you don’t suppose for a moment,” she resumed, with rising temper, “that I was to feed three hundred people, out of my own pocket, now do you?” and she threw herself back in her chair, and contemplated her visitors with her hard black eyes.
“Well, yes, ma’am,” rejoined the priest, “I must declare that I was under that impression. After all, it was only once in a way.”
“What nonsense!” she exclaimed. “Why, I was the only person who gave anything. The room, the piano, my servants’ time, my own time and exertions, all the trouble. However”—and here she gave a sniff of definite resolve—“it will be a lesson to me not to put myself out another time.”