"I think ye're in the wrong box, bein' in a stable," answered Pat, scratching his head in perplexity.
"No, no," Phil laughed; "a box stall for me. Wait till you see me scattering paint around here."
"Faith, I have me doubts o' you," said Pat.
His Irish dislike of voicing the unpleasant withheld him from expressing his thought; but as he regarded Phil now, standing coatless, and with tossed hair, looking about his transformed apartment, he decided that he was viewing the black sheep of a wealthy family, the masculine members of which had left him to his own poverty-stricken devices, while his softer-hearted female relatives were surreptitiously ameliorating his hard lot. It was difficult to see Phil in the rôle of black sheep, but Pat was sophisticated and knew that appearances were deceitful.
"Pat," said the perplexing tenant suddenly, "I begin to believe I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I'm the happiest fellow in the world."
"Sure a man doesn't say that till his wedding-day," objected Pat.
Phil smiled confidently. "I told you I had the girl; and she's the faithfullest of the faithful."
"You bet she is," returned the Irishman devoutly. "Whativer you've done, the gurr'l gets her hands on you once'll niver let go."
"Whatever I've done? What do you think I've done?" laughed Phil. "Here's my mother. Want to see her?" And he sorted several leaves from the pile of sketches and laid them out on the new table.
"It's swate she is!" said the Irishman, gazing with interest; and, perceiving the expression in the artist's eyes as he looked upon the pictures, he spoke suspiciously: "She ain't the gurr'l ye're talkin' of?"