Kate stood over the empty dish with a look of surprise. Pete winked furiously at Philip. Philip's eyes wandered about the tablecloth.
“She isn't knowing much about a hungry man's appetite, is she, Phil?”
“But,” said Kate—“but,” she stammered—“what's become of the bones?”
Pete scratched his chin through his beard. “The bones? Oh, the bones? Aw, no, we're not ateing the bones, at all.” Then with a rush, as his eyes kindled, “But the dog, you see—coorse we always give the bones to the dog—Dempster's dead on bones.”
Dempster was lying at the moment full length under the table, snoring audibly. Mrs. Gorry cleared the cloth, and Kate took up her sewing and turned towards the sideboard.
“Has any one seen my pattern?” she asked.
“Pattern?” said Pete, diving into his jacket-pocket. “D'ye say pattern,” he muttered, rummaging at his side. “Is this it?” and out came the yellow paper, crumpled and greasy, which had gone in with the chops. “Bless me, the stupid a man is now—I took it for a pipe-light.”
Kate's smile vanished, and she fled out to hide her face. Then Pete whispered to Philip, “Let's take a slieu round to the 'Plough.'”
They were leaving the house on that errand when Kate came back to the hall. “Just taking a lil walk, Kirry,” said Pete. “They're telling me it's good wonderful after dinner for a wake digestion of the chest,” and he coughed repeatedly and smote his resounding breast.
“Wait a moment and I'll go with you,” said Kate.