"Soggen and weighty, Mrs. Guinane, an' it near to swheep the life from Thomas Martin with the pain it gev him. 'The centher of me is on fire, Ma,' he cried out, an' it twelve at night—'an' I will surely die.'"
Mrs. Guinane, apologizing profusely, looked darkly towards the door which led to the kitchen.
"Mike, are ye there? He was there a minnit ago. I towlt him not to take the flour out of where 'twas always, to put it in that new house he has, for flour, says I, will not do unless there is a fire, says I, an' not one of us will he let in to put a fire there, but in an' out for himself always. Mikey, will ye bring back the flour ye have destroyed with ye're obstinacy, an' not be spilin' good food?"
Mrs. Weston's man put his shrewd blue-eyed face round the edge of the door and muttered something half aloud.
"Or will Mary Kate folly ye now with an apern full of turf," said his mother, conciliating him, "till we airs that new sthore ye have?"
Mike said "She will not" shortly, merely promising to bring back the flour bags to dry quarters.
"An', Mike, we are out of washin' soda. An' it locked up with him inside."
Mrs. Guinane then announced hotly that she was scalded from the new store, and turned to Gheena.
"Thim Germans has the poor ruined, Miss," she said, as she took the order. "Heapin' pince on everythin'."
Mrs. Weston, yawning profusely, was at home in a tobacco-scented atmosphere. Ends of cigarettes were littered about and feet cased in green silk were hurriedly removed from a comfortable rest on the mantelpiece and thrust into tight shoes. The old Swiss maid hobbled past the visitors out of the oven-hot room, curtsying as she met them.