"The saints protect you for your kindness!" said the old woman, getting to her feet and making her way up the steps with more ease than Janet had dared to expect. "The saints protect you all—all except that suspicious ould gossoon wid the whip," she added, glowering at Kink, who was by no means backward in glowering at her in reply.
"If you had such a thing as a drop of spirits," said the old woman to Janet, who had taken a seat beside her, "I should be all right. The doctor says that there's nothing like a little stimulant for such flutterings and spasms as worry me."
"I'm afraid we haven't," said Janet; "but I could make you a cup of tea."
"There's a darlin'," said the old woman. "It's not so helpful as spirits, but there's comfort in it too."
Her sharp little eyes followed Janet as she moved about and brought together all the tea requisites.
"You're a handy young lady," she said, "and may Heaven send you a fine husband when the time comes! Ah, it's myself as a girl you remind me of, with your quick, pretty ways."
"Where did you live when you were a girl?" Janet asked.
"In a little village called Kilbeggy," said the old woman. "My father was a farmer there until the trouble came upon him. But it's little enough happiness we had after that, and niver a piece of meat passed our lips for years. Nothing but potatoes and bread. And you're eating meat twice a day, I'm thinking, all of you. Ah, it's a strange world, and a very gay one when you're rich. I was rich once, me darlin'."
"Were you?" Janet asked in surprise.
"Oh, yes," said the old woman, "I was rich once. Me husband was a licensed victualler in Harrow, and we kept our own wagonette. Many's the time I've driven it meself into London, to a stable in the Edgeware Road, where I left it to do me shopping. It was an elegant carriage, and a white horse not so unlike your own, only smaller."