He drew her arm through his, laughingly pretending horror and haste; she fled lightly along beside him as he whisked her through the hall and down the stairs.
A candle burned on the desk. Soane sat there, asleep, and odorous of alcohol, his flushed face buried in his arms.
But Soane was what is known as a “sob-souse”; never ugly in his cups, merely inclined to weep over the immemorial wrongs of Ireland.
He woke up when Barres touched his shoulder, rubbed his swollen eyes and black, curly head, gazed tragically at his daughter:
“G’wan to bed, ye little scut!” he said, getting to his feet with a terrific yawn.
Barres took her hand:
“We’ve had a wonderful party, haven’t we, Sweetness?”
“Yes,” whispered the child.
The next instant she was gone like a ghost, through the dusky, whitewashed corridor where distorted shadows trembled in the candlelight.
“Soane,” said Barres, “this won’t do, you know. They’ll sack you if you keep on drinking.”