"But—but not—" came a watery stammer from Molly's corner, but Nell broke in hurriedly.
"I—I wonder will you look different, dad?"
"Oh, yes," her mother laughed the pretty laugh that was just like Nell's, "I shall be a horrid, stout old woman! Even Sheila Pat won't acknowledge me then!"
Sheila Pat said nothing.
Mrs. O'Brien squeezed Nell's fingers tightly. There was another silence. There was nothing to say. Everything had been said over and over again. The wind sent the rain beating angrily against the closed windows. The omnibus jolted and jarred over the road.
A hoarse shout smote on their ears, and the driver's whip flicked one of the panes.
Denis jumped up and let down the small window in front. Then shouting began; the wind howled derisively, drowning their voices. The driver's hoarse yells, and Denis's impatient shouts, asked and answered questions over and over again. At last Denis drew in his head:
"If that's a specimen of the London driver, I don't think much of 'em! The wind didn't get at you, did it, mother?"
"No, dear, your broad shoulders kept it off."
"Does he seem to understand the way now?" Mr. O'Brien queried.