Phyl had the Irish trick of running away with ideas and embroidering the most palpable truths with fancies. It was an inheritance from her father, and she stood by the window now unable to speak, with the word “Guardian” ringing in her ears and the idea pressing on her mind like an incubus.
Hennessey had risen up. He was the first to break silence.
“There’s no use in meeting troubles half way,” said he vaguely. “You and Phyl will get along all right when you know each other better. Come out, the two of you, and we’ll go round the grounds and you will be able to see for yourself the state of the house and what repairs are wanting.”
“One moment,” said Pinckney. “I want to tell Phyl something—I’m going to call you Phyl because I’m your guardian—d’you mind?”
“No,” said Phyl, “you can call me anything you like, I suppose.”
“I’m not going to call you anything I like—just Phyl— Well, then, I want to tell you what we have to do. It’s not my wishes I have to carry out but your father’s. He wanted to let this house.”
“Let Kilgobbin!”
“Yes, that is what he said. He wanted to let it to a good tenant who would look after it till you are of age. I think he was right. You see, you could not live here all alone, and if the place was shut up it would deteriorate.”
“It would go to wrack and ruin,” said Hennessey.
“And the servants?” said Phyl.