"Thin why would you be frettin' yourself?"
"I'm not fretting myself. Only——"
"Only what?"
"Only—— Oh! nothing, nothing." With a distressed movement Clodagh pushed back her hair from her forehead. Then she turned to the old servant afresh. "Hannah," she demanded, "why does he want to marry me? Why does he want to?"
Hannah was silent for a space; then her shrewd, ugly face puckered into an expression of profound wisdom.
"Men are quare," she said oracularly. "The oulder, the quarer. Maybe he's thinkin' of himself in the matther; but maybe"—her voice dropped impressively—"maybe, Miss Clodagh, 'tis the way he's thinkin' of you——"
She paused with deep significance.
The effort after effect was not wasted. Clodagh looked up sharply.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"Mane?" Hannah turned away, and, picking up a poker, began softly to rake the ashes from the fire. "Sure, what would I be manin'?"