“There may be.” Florence’s tone was thoughtful. “There may be a whole lot.”
“What are you going to do next?” Merry demanded with a sudden start.
“I must stay right here until nine o’clock. There was to have been a rehearsal at that hour. The director will be furious.”
“As if she could help it!”
“That’s just the trouble. You see she really had no business being here at that hour. And she was doing a thing that would have angered them beyond words, should they have found it out. How can we tell them anything without going into the whole affair?”
“That’s not an Irish question,” Merry smiled, “so you can’t expect an Irishman to answer it. We Irish folk tell the blunt, unadorned truth. If that means a fight, then we fight.
“And,” she added whimsically, “I don’t think we mind a good fight much, either.
“But say!” she exclaimed. “If you’re going to stay for the scrap, I’m not. It’s not my fight.
“Besides, I’ve something I want to try out. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not in the least.”