“Such a dirty town, me dear. Troth, your houses are brown and your streets are brown, and I’d like to get at them with soap and water; and such tinder boxes of houses—wood, wood—you’ll all burn up some day if the few brick and stone ones aren’t the salvation of ye; and your lovely surroundings, me dear; the drives and the views, they’re magnificent, just howling with beauty—but what is this?” in a tragic tone and staring open-mouthed before her.
There was the rustle of a silk gown, and looking up Vivienne saw Mrs. Colonibel standing before them, and remembered that she had heard her say that it was her day at home.
Her face was pale and her manner plainly said, “How dare you invite a guest of yours into the sacred precincts of my drawing room?” Then sweeping her long train after her she passed on.
The drawing room was a long apartment having an archway in the middle, from which hung heavy velvet curtains, that however did not keep from Vivienne’s ears and those of her guest, the impatient rustling of Mrs. Colonibel’s gown as she fidgeted to and fro.
Vivienne was deeply annoyed, yet Mrs. Macartney’s face was so ludicrous that she had difficulty in concealing a smile as she murmured: “Would you feel more comfortable in another room?”
“Faith, no, me dear; sit it out. You’ve as good right to be here as she has. Just hear her now; she isn’t mad, is she?” This last remark was in a stage whisper, which, judging from subsequent jerkings and sweepings to and fro, was perfectly audible to the occupant of the other part of the room.
“No, no,” said Vivienne hurriedly; and she plunged into a series of questions where Mrs. Macartney quite lost breath in trying to follow her.
The girl congratulated herself upon the fact that the Irish woman was as good natured as she was happy-go-lucky. An incident that would have sent another woman flying from the house shortened her stay not at all. She lingered on chatting enjoyably about Captain Macartney, who was engaged in some military duties, and Patrick, who was heartbroken because he had an appointment to keep which made it impossible for him to call upon mademoiselle that day, throwing meanwhile curious glances at the curtain which divided them from Mrs. Colonibel.
For nearly two hours Mrs. Colonibel had a succession of visitors. Their voices were distinctly audible to the two people sitting in the front part of the room, and they could plainly hear a great deal of the cheerful afternoon gossip and the occasional tinkling of teacups.
About five o’clock, interesting as was her conversation with Vivienne, Mrs. Macartney began to show signs of weariness. Her nostrils dilated slowly as if she were inhaling the fragrance of her favorite Bohea, and her countenance said plainly, “I smell hot cakes.”