“Is it the wife, ye mane?”
“Yes, the wife: where is she?”
“Well, thin, mum,” said Mr. Donnehugh, “it's yerself can answer that.”
“I?” exclaimed Mrs. Bilkins. “Good heavens! this man's as crazy as the other!”
“Begorra, if anybody's crazy, it's Larry, for it's Larry has married Margaret.”
“What Margaret?” cried Mrs. Bilkins, with a start.
“Margaret Callaghan, sure.”
“Our Margaret? Do you mean to say that OUR Margaret has married that—that good-for-nothing, inebriated wretch!”
“It's a civil tongue the owld lady has, any way,” remarked Mr. O'Rourke, critically, from the scraper.
Mrs. Bilkins's voice during the latter part of the colloquy had been pitched in a high key; it rung through the hall and penetrated to the kitchen, where Margaret was thoughtfully wiping the breakfast things. She paused with a half-dried saucer in her hand, and listened. In a moment more she stood, with bloodless face and limp figure, leaning against the banister, behind Mrs. Bilkins.