“Ah, bother! Sure, there’s no harm in it, Dulcie! Would I be askin’ ye to do wrong, asthore? Me who is your own blood and kin? Listen then: ’Tis a woman what do be botherin’ the poor young gentleman, an’ I’ll not have him f’r to be put upon. Listen, m’acushla, and if airy a lady tilliphones, or if she comes futtherin’ an’ muttherin’ around here, call me at Grogan’s and I’ll be soon dishposen’ av the likes av her.”
“Has she ever been here—this lady?” asked the girl, uncertain and painfully perplexed.
“Sure has she! Manny’s the time I’ve chased her out,” replied Soane glibly.
“Oh. What does she look like?”
“God knows—annything ye don’t wish f’r to look like yourself! Sure, I disremember what make of woman she might be—her name’s enough for you. Call me up if she comes or rings. She may be a dangerous woman, at that,” he added, “so speak fair to her and listen in to what she says.”
Dulcie slowly nodded, looking at him hard.
Soane put on his faded brown hat at an angle, fished 80 a cigar with a red and gold band from his fancy but soiled waistcoat, scratched a match on the seat of his greasy pants, and sauntered out through the big, whitewashed hallway into the street, with a touch of the swagger which always characterised him.
Dulcie, both hands buried in her ruddy hair and both thin elbows on the desk, sat poring over her school books.
Graduation day was approaching; there was much for her to absorb, much to memorise before then.