“May I stay here till he goes?”
“Sure, and you may,” said the warm-hearted Irishwoman. “You’re as welcome as flowers in May. Are you hungry?”
“No, thank you,” said Phil. “I have eaten my dinner.”
“Won’t you try a bit of bread and cold mate now?” she asked, hospitably.
“You are very kind,” said Phil, gratefully, “but I am not hungry. I only want to get away from Pietro.”
“Is that the haythen’s name? Sure I niver heard it before.”
“It is Peter in English.”
“And has he got the name of the blessed St. Peter, thin? Sure, St. Peter would be mightily ashamed of him. And is he your brother, do you say?”
“No,” said Phil.
“He said he was; but I thought it was a wicked lie when he said it. He’s too bad, sure, to be a brother of yours. But I must go down to my work. My clothes are in the tub, and the water will get cold.”