"Certainly, Michael," offered Cleo. Then a thought struck her that seemed to offer some solution of the difficulties at the studio. Maybe Michael's cousin could keep house for Mary and her grandfather?
"Mary," she whispered, "do you mind if I ask Michael about his cousin?
She might go to the studio for us."
"Oh, wouldn't that be splendid!" and something like joy shot across
Mary's pale face. "I know any friend of Michael's would be faithful."
But Michael was just spying the little animal in Mary's arm. And the animal seemed to be just spying Michael!
"What on earth—have you got—there!" gasped the caretaker.
"Oh, the dearest little monkey——" Cleo attempted to explain, but was interrupted with a protest.
"A monkey!" cried Michael. "Of all the hated animals of the earth a monkey is the worst. Where ever did you pick the creature up?" He stepped nearer to examine the mascot, in spite of his denunciation.
"Now you couldn't hate a little thing like that," insisted Grace.
"Just see, he wants to shake hands with you."
Rather awkwardly the man extended one big brown finger. The queer little creature made a comical effort to grasp it, and at the same time shake his wizened head with a show of monkey intelligence.
"I don't exactly know why it is, but the Irish hate monkeys!" admitted
Michael, with a hearty laugh that interpreted the joke.