"Oh, oh, please would you mind stayin' there?" she cried out in a shrill little agitated voice.
He stopped abruptly.
"What is it, meine liebe?"
"You have been very kind, indeed, Mr. Hair Smitt." The Atom's exceedingly grown-up manner precluded any more questions. "Thank you very much. Would you mind turnin' your back a minute?"
He moved away and looked out of the window.
Sheila Pat with trembling hands turned up her skirt and grasped the dangling petticoat beneath, but as she did it, a wicked black head emerged from beneath the table, and wicked white teeth closed on the flannel and pulled—pulled.
"K.K.! I'll whip you! Drop it! Oh, drop it, K.K.!"
But whether it was that the Atom dared not raise her voice above a whisper, or whether K.K. just felt specially naughty—anyway, she did not leave go.
And Sheila Pat's proud soul was filled with very real agony. With a despairing "Please don't turn round—I'm goin'!" she fled out into the hall, stumbling along, with K.K. and her petticoat dragging her sideways. She sank on to the lowest stair and let her petticoat go; she watched K.K. drag it down her legs, across the hall. He had treated her so beautifully! He had behaved as if she were a grown-up. All had gone so well—and what would he think of her now? A vision of Biddy O'Regan's numerous babies trotting about with various garments dangling about their legs rose up before her eyes. Only babies let their things come down, the Atom thought, and she shuddered.
K.K. brought the petticoat to her with a conciliatory wag, and laid it gently in her lap. The Atom took no notice. She was sure he had forgotten how she had tumbled down the stairs, and now—K.K. pushed a moist nose into her hand. "Oh, K.K., is it lovin' me you are after that?" She pointed to the petticoat with a short but tragic finger. K.K. laid a sweet head on her knee, with upturned eyes adoring.