"Yes," answered Cecilia meekly.
"Oh, drat!" said Father McGowan with an entire change of tone. "I don't want you polished. Dear child! Drat him, is he crazy?"
Jeremiah wandered in. He was sullen. He had been talked to by a fat priest, who told him that he should leave the discipline of a certain doctor to God and the world, explaining that it was rarely necessary for humans to add to any one's unhappiness by a mistaken sense of dealing out justice.
Jeremiah had listened with his eyes on the top shelf of a gilt cabinet which held a brick. After Father McGowan had finished, Jeremiah had spoken of the weather, and Jeremiah was a good Catholic. Father McGowan realised it was a bad case. He had abandoned it for that time.
"And will yuh stay fer dinner?" asked the sullen Jeremiah.
"I will," answered the priest decidedly. Cecilia handed him a handkerchief, which he folded carefully and put in his pocket. Then she got up and played "The Shepherd Boy" for the King of Bricks.
Outside in the grey light a sullen-eyed man played tennis with Marjory. He played with much energy and replied with scant courtesy to Marjory's remarks.
"Cecilia said that she was tired of entertaining,—that I'd have to do it for her," sang out the green-eyed. K. Stuyvesant's chin squared.
"In," he called. "I'm a fool to stick around," was his mental comment on himself. He was not surprised by the dead weight his heart felt, although the sensation was new.
They finished their game and went toward the house. "You're doing lots for John," said Marjory. "He adores you! Imitates your every move! You'll try to get him through this smartness?"