"Miss Macnamara, I insist on your having another glass of sherry!" the squire would thunder out; or, "Mr. Jonas O'Hagan, how is your lame foot this evening? and are you making free with the beef? It is meant to be eaten, remember; it is meant to be eaten."
Jonas O'Hagan, a very lean old man of close on seventy, would nod back to the squire, and help himself to junks of the good highly spiced beef in question. Miss Macnamara would simper and say:
"Well, squire, to oblige you then, I'll have just a leetle drop more sherry."
The business of eating, however, was too important for the squire to do much in the way of conversation.
Janet's small-talk—she thought herself an adept at small-talk—was kindly listened to, but not largely responded to.
Bridget whispered to herself, "I must really tell Janet another day that father must be left in peace to eat the one meal he really does eat in the twenty-four hours."
Bridget herself did not speak at all. She scarcely ate anything, but leaned back against her chair, one hand lying affectionately on Bruin's head. Anxious and troubled thoughts were filling her young mind. What had become of the two pounds she had given Janet to put into Norah's letter?
She felt startled and perplexed. It was an awful thing to harbor bad feelings toward a visitor. All Bridget's instincts rose up in revolt at the bare idea. She thought herself a dreadful girl for being obliged to rush away to the old summerhouse to cry; but bad as that was, what was it in comparison to the thoughts which now filled her mind? Could it be possible that Janet, sitting there exactly opposite to her, looking so neat, so pretty, so tranquil, could have stolen those two sovereigns? Could the girl who called herself Bridget's friend be a thief?
Oh, no, it was simply impossible.