An odd little man emerged from the scullery and stood coolly rubbing his nose-tip with the toe of the boot he was polishing. "An' how should I know, miss? Didn't he come tearing through the passage, as if the divil wor after him, an' lape like a trout int' the street? Sure ye must have seen the masther rampagin' yersilf."
"I know that father came and found me with George and----"
"Ah, thin, 'tis Garge, is it?" muttered Tim, beginning to brush mechanically.
"And rushed away in a temper because George would not give him my amethyst cross."
Crash went the boot on the floor, and the blacking-brush followed, while Tim stared out of his melancholy grey eyes as though he saw a ghost. Decidedly the ornament was causing a considerable sensation, although Lesbia could not understand why her father should rage, any more than why Tim should stare. "Like a stuck pig," as she said, inelegantly. And the annoying thing was that he did more than stare.
"Oh, blissid saints in glory!" groaned the Irishman, crossing himself.
"What on earth do you mean?" asked the girl, tartly, for she was beginning to weary of these mysteries.
"Oh, blissid saints in glory!" Tim moaned again, and, picking up the boot and the brush with the expression of a martyr, went into the scullery to peel potatoes.
Lesbia, who was a determined young woman, followed, quite bent upon getting at the root of the disturbance.
"Come and talk, Tim."