The peasant woman felt almost sick in her horror at such a sentiment, and she moved towards the door to pass out.
“Have you thought of everything, Molly?” asked he, more mildly.
“I think so, Sir. There’s to be twenty-eight at the wake—twenty-nine, if Mr. Rafter comes; but we don’t expect him—and Father Lowrie would make thirty; but we’ve plenty for them all.”
“And when will this—this feasting—take place?”
“The night before the funeral, by coorse,” said the woman.
“And they will all leave this the next morning, Molly?”
“Indeed I suppose they will, Sir,” said she, no less offended at the doubt than at the inhospitable meanness of the question.
“So be it, then!” said he, with a sigh. “I have nothing more to say.”
“You know, Sir,” said she, with a great effort at courage, “that they’ll expect your Honour will go in for a minute or two—to drink their healths, and say a few words to them?”
He shook his head in dissent, but said nothing.