“It’s hardly the accepted theory!” roared Richard.
“Well!” Phœbe kept a serious face; “what I’d like to know is, what put the bad fuzz on my Orpingtons’ legs? Anyhow, I kill every dandelion I see before they get bloomin’ and gallivantin’ about.”
“Oh, you’re Irish, O.K.,” cried Richard when he had recovered. “Deliciously Irish.”
“Didn’t I tell you you’d love her?” exulted Jerry, drying her eyes.
“I fear I shall,” said Richard gallantly.
“Fear is the word, me lad,” said Phœbe. “For Seth’s ‘pen’ is still there for the next one, and the barb-wire, too. It worked so well with himself that I couldn’t be content with any other system. And the whip’s on the rack within easy reach. So count your beads carefully, Richard Richard, and pray to be delivered from Phœbe Norris.”
“It would just suit him,” said Jerry. “He’s a professional loafer. He’d just enjoy being fed and bathed and put to bed.”
“Oh!” said she. “He’s that sort, is he! Then I’m doomed. They’re the kind that get on my soft spot. All the derelicts in Jerusalem township find my door somehow, and they know I can’t resist them. Well, each man to his trade, I suppose. Whenever you’re ready, Richard Richard, trot into the pen. Shove the door to; it locks itself.”
On other topics Phœbe was serious enough; but the moment the subject touched herself she lifted it to rollicking nonsense. So before they left she spoke a quiet word or two to Richard.
“I’m interested in Walter,” she said. “Some day I want to know what you are doing with him.”