“There’s nothing so bricky about that,” said Valancy. “I’d nothing else to do. And—I like it here. I don’t feel as if I’d done anything specially meritorious. Mr. Gay is paying me fair wages. I never earned any money before—and I like it.” It seemed so easy to talk to Barney Snaith, someway—this terrible Barney Snaith of the lurid tales and mysterious past—as easy and natural as if talking to herself.
“All the money in the world couldn’t buy what you’re doing for Cissy Gay,” said Barney. “It’s splendid and fine of you. And if there’s anything I can do to help you in any way, you have only to let me know. If Roaring Abel ever tries to annoy you——”
“He doesn’t. He’s lovely to me. I like Roaring Abel,” said Valancy frankly.
“So do I. But there’s one stage of his drunkenness—perhaps you haven’t encountered it yet—when he sings ribald songs——”
“Oh, yes. He came home last night like that. Cissy and I just went to our room and shut ourselves in where we couldn’t hear him. He apologised this morning. I’m not afraid of any of Roaring Abel’s stages.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll be decent to you, apart from his inebriated yowls,” said Barney. “And I’ve told him he’s got to stop damning things when you’re around.”
“Why?” asked Valancy slily, with one of her odd, slanted glances and a sudden flake of pink on each cheek, born of the thought that Barney Snaith had actually done so much for her. “I often feel like damning things myself.”
For a moment Barney stared. Was this elfin girl the little, old-maidish creature who had stood there two minutes ago? Surely there was magic and devilry going on in that shabby, weedy old garden.
Then he laughed.
“It will be a relief to have some one to do it for you, then. So you don’t want anything but salt codfish?”