'Mary O'Brian,' said a blear-eyed old man, 'is the one that's just come out o' quod.'
'Oh, thank you.' Then to her sister Vida whispered, 'What is quod?'
But Mrs. Fox-Moore could only shake her head. Even when they heard the words these strange fellow-citizens used, meaning often failed to accompany sound.
'Oh, is that Mary?' A rollicking young rough, with his hat on the extreme back of his head, began to sing, 'Molly Darling.'
'’Ow'd yer like the skilly?' another shouted up at the girl.
'Skilly?' whispered Mrs. Fox-Moore.
Vida in turn shook her head. It wasn't in the dictionary of any language she knew. But it seemed in some way to involve dishonour, for the chairman, who had been consulting with the man in grey, turned suddenly and faced the crowd. Her eyes were shining with the light of battle, but what she said in a peculiarly pleasant voice was—
'Miss O'Brian has come here for the express purpose of telling you how she liked it.'
'Oh, she's going to tell us all about it. 'Ow nice!' But they let the thin little slip of a girl alone after that.
It was a new-comer, a few moments later who called out from the fringe of the crowd—