"O dear," sighed Nell, "and there was only one tiny hole in them. It's all your fault, Denis. You shouldn't be rude to me, when your head's such a beautiful target."
But Denis had emerged from the chimney, and was quietly smoking his cigarette in the open room.
"Jolly good idea, old girl. Twig? Every time I want to do a smoke, we'll burn a pair of stockings—they'd out-smell Patsy O'Driscoll's cigars!"
"Denis," Nell spoke with a puckered brow, "how much is five cakes when they're four for threepence halfpenny?"
"Nell, your grammar! It makes me feel faint!"
"'Are,' then. You're only trying to gain time. Oh, Atom, don't move! Kate Kearney's splendid like that. I must get her."
Denis looked over her shoulder as she dashed in a rapid pencil sketch. He glanced across at Molly and winked. It was a family joke that everything Nell began—accounts, sewing, tidying-up—ended, on the slightest possible pretext, in a sketch.
"Oh, Denis," Molly besought nervously, "I know Aunt Kezia will smell your cigarette!"
He struck an attitude.
"I defy her! Shall an O'Brien be cowed by a Scotch woman, and in his stronghold, too? Shall a young man who is also a bank clerk be frightened of a mere ignoramusess—oh, Lor', Molly, hide me—hide me—here she comes!"