Despite its patois, Phelim’s talk was too well understood by her to whom it was addressed. Jealousy is an apt translator. Something like a sigh escaped from Isidora, as he pronounced that little word “her.”
“I don’t wish to see her,” was the quick rejoinder; “but him you mention. Is he at home? Is he inside?”
“Is he at home? Thare now, that’s comin’ to the point—straight as a poike staff. An’ supposin’ I wuz to say yis, fwhat ud yez be afther wantin’ wid him?”
“I wish to see him.”
“Div yez? Maybe now ye’ll wait till yez be asked. Ye’re a purty crayther, notwithstandin’ that black strake upon yer lip. But the masther isn’t in a condishun jist at this time to see any wan—unless it was the praste or a docthur. Yez cyant see him.”
“But I wish very much to see him, señor.”
“Trath div yez. Ye’ve sayed that alriddy. But yez cyant, I till ye. It isn’t Phaylim Onale ud deny wan av the fair six—espacially a purty black-eyed colleen loike yerself. But for all that yez cyant see the masther now.”
“Why can I not?”
“Why cyant yez not? Will—thare’s more than wan rayzon why yez cyant. In the first place, as I’ve towlt you, he’s not in a condishun to resave company—the liss so av its bein’ a lady.”
“But why, señor? Why?”