Barry Quinlevin came in, Harry carrying his bag. With a gay laugh he caught Moira into his arms.
"Well,—it's joyful I am to be back, dusty and unwashed, but none the less glad to be here. How are ye, child? By the amount of time ye took opening the door, I thought ye might be dead——"
"I'm very tired—," she murmured, "I've not been up to the mark——"
He held her off and looked at her in the dim light from the gas jet.
"A little peaky—eh—too much moping in the dark. Let's have some lights—and a drink of the Irish. 'Twill do none of us harm."
He moved into the studio and Harry Horton set the bag down.
"Did you have a successful trip?" asked Moira, putting more color into her voice than she felt.
"So, so," said Quinlevin. "A bottle, Moira—and some glasses and water," and when she had obeyed, "There—the very sight of it's already making a new man of me. Harry, boy—yer health."
Moira sat and listened while he described the incidents of his trip. Harry could not meet her look, but she saw that he drank sparingly. As for her father, she watched him in silence, aware of his flamboyant grace and charm, again incredulous as to the things she knew of him. But his letter to Harry in her shirtwaist seemed to be burning the fair skin of her breast to remind her of his venality.
On his way to the bottle he pinched her pale cheeks between his long fingers. "Where's yer spirit, girl? Ye look as though ye'd been hearing a banshee. A fine husband ye've got, and all, to be putting lilies in yer cheeks instead of roses!"