As O’Brien, in high good humour, having communicated the side-splitting joke to Mary and Finnerty, was busy over his account books, Kelly came in.
“She’s back,” he whispered, “an she’s neither to hold nor to bind. I was watchin’ out, an’ sure, ’twas shtruck all of a hape she was whin she seen thim lilies; an’ now I’ll take me oath she’s goin’ to come here, for, begob, she looks as cross as nine highways.”
“Letter come,” chuckled O’Brien; “I’m ready forrer.”
At this moment the office door was burst open with violence, and Mrs. Macfarlane, in her best Sunday costume, bonnet, black gloves, and umbrella included, her face very pale save the cheek bones, where two bright pink spots burned, entered the room.
“Misther O’Brien,” she said in a high, stilted voice that trembled with rage, “will yu please to inform me the meanin’ o’ this dasthardly outrage?”
“Arrah, what outrage are ye talkin’ ov ma’am?” asked O’Brien, innocently. “Sure, be the looks ov ye I think somethin’ has upset ye entirely. Faith, ye’re lookin’ as angry as if you were vexed, as the sayin’ is.”
“Oh, to be sure. A great wonder, indeed, that I should be vexed. ‘Crabbit was that cause had!’” interrupted Mrs Macfarlane with a sneer. “You’re not decavin’ me, sir. I’m not takin in by yur pretinces, but if there’s law in the land, or justice, I’ll have it of yu.”
“Would ye mind, ma’am,” said O’Brien, imperturbably, for his superabounding delight made him feel quite calm and superior to the angry woman—“would ye mind statin’ in plain English what y’re talkin’ about for not a wan ov me knows?”
“Oh, yu son of Judas! Oh, yu deceivin’ wretch! As if it wasn’t yu that is afther desthroyin’ my flower-beds!”
“Ah, thin, it is y’r ould flower-beds y’re makin’ all this row about? Y’r dirty orange lilies’. Sure, ’tis clared out o’ the place they ought t’ve been long ago for weeds. ’Tis mesel’ that’s glad they’re gone, an’ so I tell ye plump an’ plain; bud as for me desthroyin’ them, sorra finger iver I laid on thim; I wouldn’t demane mesel’.”