"Then you shall have it this once with Denis Quirk, who neither professes nor has the slightest wish to be—a gentleman."
He rose and put his chair on one side.
"Thank you," she said, as he held the door open for her. But, while she went up the stairs to Mrs. Quirk's room, the eternal question was repeating itself to her: "What do you think of this man?"
She found old Mrs. Quirk in her room, arranging a series of photos. There was Denis from infancy until the period when he had left his home—ugly, but smiling from infancy to manhood.
"What do you think of Denis? Isn't he grown into a fine man, and as full of fun as if he were a boy? And doesn't he love his old mother?" asked the fond old mother.
"Why shouldn't he?" asked Kathleen. "I love her as if she were my own mother."
"God bless you, child. I believe you do. Did you see what he has brought me? Brooches and shawls! But what good is jewellery to me? You must take them."
"No, no!" cried Kathleen, hastily. "You must keep them for Mr. Quirk's wife."
A smile lit up the old lady's face as she looked at the brooch in her hand and then at Kathleen.