"I just will do that same," she said.
A peremptory knock at the door, and Denis himself entered. He smiled as he noted the array of photographs.
"Which is the uglier," he asked Kathleen, "the picture or the original? Fire away, mother, and tell Miss O'Connor every detail of my life. Cut my first tooth when I was seven days old; spoke—or did I swear—at three months, fought my first fight on my first birthday, and I've been fighting ever since."
"Oh, Denis, Denis, you are as much an omadhaun as ever," sighed Mrs. Quirk. "But he was a fine boy, Kathleen!"
"And into a fine man he has grown, mother!" laughed Denis. "But what could you expect with such a mother? Father alive, Miss O'Connor?"
The abruptness of the question was quite disconcerting to Kathleen.
"No," she replied; "my father is dead."
"Sorry I asked," said Denis.
"God rest his soul! They do say he was a great man; but what could you expect, and him an O'Connor?" said Mrs. Quirk.
"Hem!" began Denis, but he checked himself and asked: "Any relations living, Miss O'Connor?"