"I'm not lovin' ye at the present moment," said Flannigan.
He resumed his paper, reading it with such apparent zeal that Tilly might as well not exist. She felt more furious than ever. She began to sob, she sobbed very loud. Flannigan took no notice whatever of the noise she was making for some time, but when it became unbearable he said,
"For the Lord's sake don't slobber, girl!"
"What's slobber?" asked Tilly, who pretended not to be acquainted with the word, and who wanted at any cost to get Mr. Flannigan into conversation, but the clergyman did not reply. He was buried again in his newspaper.
Tilly's sobs, which she thought so affecting, but which the old clergyman called "slobber," grew fainter for lack of nutriment.
By-and-bye they reached Rosslare, where a rather small boat was going to cross over to Fishguard.
"Ye'll have a rough crossing, I'm thinkin'," said Flannigan. "The waves look dirty, to be sure. Ye'd best go and lie down. I'll see ye to your cabin and then say good-bye. There's a return train, which will take me back to Desmondstown in time for supper."
"Oh, oh, Mr. Flannigan," sobbed Tilly. "You don't believe all these bad things of me?"
"And why shouldn't I? There was the ten pins as large as life. Didn't I count 'em when The Desmond was tellin' ye to begone?"
"But you do know, you must know, Mr. Flannigan, that she is only a shopkeeper——"