When at last his tongue resumed its function, Dennis, like many another with even more self-possession and experience, uttered just the words which were intended for concealment, as he stammered:
“An’ it’s no wonder, at all, at all.”
The exclamation, however, was barely above a whisper, and it was only by following the motion of his lips and a shrewd intuition as to the rest which enabled the widow to realize what he had uttered, as she asked, smiling to note that the young man had neglected to release her hand:
“And what is it that is no wonder?”
At this question, Dennis, deserted for the moment by his customary adroitness, was unable to do anything else than respond, without evasion or subterfuge:
“Well, I was thinkin’ it’s no wonder the manager wanted to go into the business.”
“Ah!” laughed the widow with genuine enjoyment and a sensible realization of the spirit which urged his exclamation and its explanation, “that is Irish, I am sure”; and with that Dennis began to feel more at home, although still subdued by the accumulation of practical beatitudes.
“Tell me,” he said, when each was agreeably established, Dennis upon a comfortable divan and his listener in a chair which supplied its fascinating occupant with a sort of solicitous support, which Dennis assured himself would be poetry realized if he could be permitted to share, “tell me, shall I recite my abilities first or read the story?”
“Suppose,” suggested his hearer, “we hear the story first and reserve your catalogue as a climax, like the dessert after the banquet.”
“All right!” assented Dennis, as he produced a circular bundle, from which he extracted his absurd medium.