"He'll not be stayin', mum. He's all for work."
"Has he been sleeping out here on these hot stones?" demanded Mrs. Fabian, with dilating nostrils, looking at the mattress.
"No, mum, he usually took the bed," responded the Irishman.
"Well, you've carried his upstairs, I see."
"I'll have to break it to ye that he did it himself," said the man.
Mrs. Fabian ignored his manner. Her thought was filled with Philip's situation.
"Well, here," she said, with a preoccupied air, and, taking a bill from the fine-mesh purse which hung from her wrist, she held it out to the Irishman. "Take this and do what I've asked you. You needn't prepay the trunk if you send it. Keep the change, and I hope the heat here won't grow any worse. Good-bye." And Mrs. Fabian turned on her heel and the grey chiffon floated away up the alley.
Pat looked at the five-dollar bill he held and tossed his head. "Who is that bye," he muttered, "and will he iver live in the stable ag'in?"
Suddenly, bethinking himself that he might see the grand departure of his lodger, he hurried out to the street, and was in time to see Phil's straw hat loom amid a confusion of grey and rosy streaming veils.
"Sure, 'tis only the rich enjoys this life," he thought good-naturedly, and unbuttoning his neckband again, he returned to his palm-leaf fan.