“‘Whin down the glin rode Sarsfield’s min,
And they wore the jackets green.’
“Sing it onct, fer th’ ould man.”
“But, father,” the girl laughed, though she began screwing up the piano stool, “it’s too late, the neighbors will object.”
“Niver mind th’ neighbors,” commanded the alderman in the tone he used at a primary, “sing it.”
“But it’s forbidden in the lease after ten o’clock,” the girl protested, leafing over her music. “What if the landlord—”
“It’s time to say good marnin’ to th’ divil, Nora, whin ye meet ’im.”
Nora fixed herself on the stool, fingered the keys, finding a soft minor chord. The old man closed his eyes, slid farther down in his plush chair, and just as he was prepared to listen, she suddenly stopped in the provoking way amateur musicians cultivate, to say:
“But, father, that’s such an old song, wouldn’t you rather I’d sing the Intermezzo from Cavalerie?”
Malachi opened his eyes with a start and sat bolt upright.