"Nothing would make them realize anything," he stormed, as he sat down on a box—"nothing."
"Father Pat says the ships is patrollin' the say and they'll niver let them over," said Anne more happily. "An' what is it, Phil?"
"It is the box we put a lick of paint on yestherday; makin' it sweet to hold the crushed oats. He won't be best plazed if it isn't dry," whispered Phil. "An' not much drying in yestherday, aither."
Mr. Freyne got up, removing a film of brown paint with him, and without noticing it, continued his oration.
He was interrupted this time by Matilda, asking him if he'd remembered to write for the salt for the dairy, and left hurriedly, saying more to himself than it was seemly to utter aloud.
"His throuser bein' brown, ye could not see," said Phil anxiously. "God save us! look at the print of himself on it, an' there'll be pure murther whin he claps an eye on his throuser. Hurry in to Naylour, Anne, and tell him to rub on turps whin the Masther changes his clothes."
"Dearest George will be angry," said Gheena thoughtfully; "it is quite sticky."
Mr. Freyne was sorely puzzled later on to find smudges of brown paint on the red leather library chair, and another smudge on the drawing-room sofa, where he had sat down to ruminate over the crass stupidity of the Irish.
When both the housemaids took "their Bible oath" that they were innocent of using fresh paint, there was nothing for it but to harangue his wife and Gheena. When Gheena offered a sporting bet that he had done it himself, he got really angry, and unwisely accused her of impertinence to her elders.
Phil knocked at the library door.