“Any letters, Sweetness?”
“None, Mr. Barres.”
“All the better. I have too many letters, too many visitors. It leaves me no time to have another party with you. But we shall have another, Dulcie—never fear. That is,” he added, pretending to doubt her receptiveness of his invitation, “if you would care to have another with me.”
She merely looked at him, smiling deliciously.
“Be a good child and we’ll have another!” he called back to her, running on up the western staircase.
Around seven o’clock her father came in, steady enough of foot but shiny-red in the face and maudlin drunk.
“That woman was here,” he whined, “an’ ye never called me up! I am b-bethrayed be me childer—wurra the day——”
“Please, father! If any one sees you——”
“An’ phwy not! Am I ashamed o’ the tears I shed? 86 No, I am not. No Irishman need take shame along av the tears he sheds for Ireland—God bless her where she shtands!—wid the hob-nails av the crool tyrant foreninst her bleeding neck an’——”