Sheila Pat sat and gazed down thoughtfully at the forefinger of her right hand; a small smile flickered at the corners of her lips. The finger was rough and red. She wondered would it be possible to grease the lock of the kitchen door. It was not the pain she minded so much as the risk attached to the noise the slow turning of a stiff key makes at four or five o'clock in the morning. At the moment of her musing a determined little hand seized again on her shoe; fingers picked at a button. Sheila Pat kicked. Now, as a rule, Jim O'Driscoll was easily cowed—easily induced to retire. A frowning shake of the head had hitherto been sufficient to keep him still, in an attitude of petrified thought, for several minutes at a time. Apparently a backward kick, gentle because Sheila Pat could not, even for his own welfare bring herself to make it otherwise, had lost its power of petrification; anyhow Jim refused to abandon his tenacious hold upon her shoe button. Sheila Pat wriggled her foot out of the shoe; it disappeared immediately. Meanwhile Miss Kezia talked. She had never considered herself, or been considered by others, a talkative woman. When she left the Stronghold, there were worried lines about her face; she moved her lips in an irritated manner. It was irksome to her to be obliged to talk so much; it outraged Nature, and added to the irritation consequent on the O'Briens' misdemeanours. But she considered it her duty to talk, so she did it. And no one was grateful.
Sheila Pat rescued her button from Jim's cheek, and Nell opened the cupboard. The puppy certainly looked very charming. He lay in a nest of oats, biscuits, ink, and torn paper; a long paint-brush stuck rakishly out of the corner of his mouth. It was perhaps his expression that was so particularly charming. He had feasted on biscuits; he had tasted the flavours of oats, ink, and paper. He had had a meal to his taste, and now he was sleepy. He looked up at Nell a little mischievously and palpably with a supreme content with life. He was sleepy, and willing to be petted. That he was adorned still with patches of paint to which he had added smears of ink in no way detracted from his adorableness.
Nell said, "Oh, you bad puppy!"
She picked him up and hugged him.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Nell, carrying Jim O'Driscoll upstairs beneath her pinafore, nearly fell down at the sudden loud rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat that echoed through the house.
Sarah came running to open the door. They peeped over the balusters; Ted dashed in, up the stairs, and into them.
"You seem to be in a hurry," Denis suggested.
"Er—no—"
He stood silent.