“No, I’ll stay home with you. I—I may take a little run out—this evening.”
“Certainly, dear. That’s right.” She began clearing away the dishes.
Kate Walsh received Howard Benton in the “front-room” of the Walsh flat—a shabbily furnished little square of room that was used mainly for three purposes—receiving company, exhibiting a new baby, or holding a wake.
The family had been banished to the kitchen at the end of the hall for the evening, with the exception of her mother, whom Kate brought into introduce to Howard. Mrs. Walsh was a good-natured, stout little woman, rather tired and faded looking. She had been in this country since she was sixteen, but she still clung to her native brogue.
“Shure, Mister Benton, ’tis glad to meet ye Oi am. Kitty here’s been tellin’ me what a foine young gintleman ye are.”
“Oh, Ma, you do say such things!” Kate giggled. “You ain’t got no delicacy at all.”
Mrs. Walsh looked wise, but kept silent. She didn’t know exactly what Kitty meant by delicacy. After a minute, she held out her hand to Howard.
“If ye’ll be afther excusin’ me, Mister Benton,” she apologized, “Oi’ll be sayin’ good-night to ye, and goin’ back to the babies. It’s about toime they wuz in bed.”
And feeling that she had nobly done her duty by her daughter by coming in to be introduced to the gentleman—the same as all the society matrons did in the novels Kitty read and told her about—Mrs. Walsh bowed herself out, and hastened to the more urgent duties awaiting her in the kitchen.
Howard remained until ten-thirty. He enjoyed the evening immensely; Kate was such good company.