He followed her out of the room, and a slight scuffle was presently heard in the passage. Mrs. McNally solemnly closed the door, and came back to Pat and Elleney, who stood looking equally downcast and confused.
"I'd like to know, Pat Rooney," she said, gazing at the young man sternly, "what talk at all this is between you and me niece? What business is it o' yours to interfere? I don't understand it at all, Elleney—I'm very much put about—"
"It's no fault of Miss Elleney's, ma'am," said Pat quickly. "She'd nothin' to say to it at all. I forgot meself altogether. When I seen that fellow makin' little of a chance that I'd give the two eyes out o' my head for—"
"O Pat, whisht for goodness sake!" interrupted Elleney. "Ye oughtn't to be talkin' like that."
"Sure I know that very well, Miss Elleney, darlint—I know I might just as well be cryin' for the moon. But the murder's out now, an' 'pon me word I'm glad of it. I couldn't stop here the way I am—I'd go mad altogether. I'll throuble ye to look out for another boy, Mrs. McNally, ma'am—I wish to leave in a week's time."
Mrs. McNally gasped.
"Isn't it the great fool you are, Pat Rooney, to go give up your good place for a stupid notion like this? Ye know Miss Elleney 'ud never demean herself to you."
"Ay, ma'am, I know she looks on me as the dirt under her feet."
"Then stop where ye are," said Mrs. McNally, comfortably. "You're a very good boy when you don't let your wits go wool-gatherin'. As for my niece, she's no notion of encouragin' any nonsense—have ye, Elleney?"
Elleney's long lashes were downcast, and she nervously twisted her apron.