“What is a ninny?”
“Heaven knows,” the helpless Julia replied, “but I’m thinkin’ I’m it, whatever it may be. Why won’t you wear the nightgown, Tammy? Sure all nice gir’rls——”
“It belongs to her,” said Tamea and pointed majestically upward. “It bears the letter P.”
“Be the Rock of Cashel,” sighed poor Julia, “you’re windictive so you are,” and without further ado she went upstairs and brought down one of her own plain chemises de nuit. Without a word Tamea donned it and crept dutifully into bed.
“Do you not say your prayers before you get into bed, Tammy?” the pious Julia queried reproachfully.
Tamea shook her head, dark and beautiful against the snowy pillow. Julia sighed. Her own problems were always dumped, metaphorically speaking, in the lap of her Christian God, night and morning.
“This is truly a bed for a queen,” said Tamea thoughtfully. “Is Monsieur Dan Pritchard, then, a very rich man?”
“He have barrels of it,” Julia replied reverently.
“My father gave me to him, Julia.”
“Faith, an’ that’s where he showed his common sinse. Divil a finer gintleman could you find the wide wur’rld over.”