The speaker stopped suddenly as she pronounced this difficult word, for a curious muffled sound reached her ears. “What’s that?” she asked quickly; but her companions had heard nothing, so she retired into the cubicle next Pixie’s own to brush her hair, slightly raising her voice, so as to be heard more easily by her companions.
“She lives in a castle! I heard Miss Phipps telling Miss Bruce when she was sending the labels. ‘Knock-kneed Castle,’ or something like that. Every second house in Ireland is called a castle, my father says. It’s no more than a villa in England, and all the people are as poor as Job, and have hens in their parlours and pigs on the lawn. They don’t know what it is to keep order. What are you grunting for, Ethel? It’s quite true, I tell you!”
“Dear me, I’m not grunting, I’m only washing my hands,” cried Ethel, aggrieved. “What’s the matter with your ears this afternoon? I don’t care where she lives, so long as she behaves herself, and knows how to respect her elders. I wonder what she is like!”
“Irish girls are mostly pretty.”
“Who told you that?”
“Never mind, I know it. It’s always raining over there, and that is supposed to be good for the hair, or the complexion, or something. And they are so bright and vivacious. If an author wants to make a specially lively heroine in a book, the father is Irish, and the mother is French. Perhaps she’ll be the beauty of the school, and then won’t someone we could mention tear her hair with rage?”
“Well, I don’t know about being pretty,” said Pixie’s neighbour reflectively. “We have had lots of Irish servants, and they were plain enough. But the name sounds interesting—‘Miss Shog-nessie—the Castle—Ireland.’ It certainly sounds interesting. I’d give something to know what she is like.”
“If ye’ll step inside the curtain, ye may judge for yerself,” said a deep rich voice suddenly from behind the curtain which was farthest from the door.
There was silence in the bedroom—a silence which might be felt!