“Ah, sure, an’ I will,” replied she; “sure, an’ I’ll try me hand at it.”
“One day, then, sometime last summer, Hannah—beggin’ her ladyship’s pardon,” said Anne, a sudden note of scorn rasping in her voice, “but I meant Mrs. Breen—decks herself out, ties on her bonnet, pulls on her kid gloves, an’ steps out through the hall door. Down she goes, over the ruts an’ the stones, along the lane, turns down the main road; after a while comes to the house o’ Mrs. Flaherty—herself that told me—crosses the street, an’ knocks po-lite on the door.
“‘Aw, is Mrs. Flaherty at home, this fine day?’ axes Hannah when the door opens, an’ wee Nancy put her tattered head between it an’ the post. ‘Is Mrs. Flaherty at home?’ says she.
“‘She is so,’ answers Nancy; ‘but she’d be out at the well,’ says the wee crature.
“‘I see,’ says Hannah, ‘I see. Then, if you please, when she comes back,’ says she, ‘would you be kindly handin’ her that, wi’ Mrs. Breen’s compliments’—an’ out of her pocket Hannah pulls a letter, gives it to Nancy, says good evenin’ to the wee mortial, gathers up her skirt, an’ steps off in her grandeur through the hens an’ ducks back to the road. Well, on she goes another piece, an’ comes to the house of Mary Dolan; an’ there, too, faith, she does the genteel an’ leaves another letter an’ turns her feet for the house of Mrs. Hogan; an’ at Sally’s she smiles, an’ bobs her head, an’ pulls another letter from her pocket, an’ leaves it at the door; then twists on her heel, turns back home an’ begins dustin’ the parlours, an’ arrangin’ her trumpery an’ readin’ bleather from the fashion papers.
“Very well, childer. Home Jane comes from the well, an’ there’s Nancy wi’ the letter in her fist. ‘What the divil’s this?’ says Jane, an’ tears it open; an’ there, lo an’ behold ye, is a bit of a card—Jane swears ’twas a piece of a bandbox, but I’d be disbelievin’ her—an’ on it an invite to come an’ have tay with me bould Hannah, on the next Wednesday evenin’ at five o’clock p.m.—whativer in glory p.m. may be after meanin’; when Mary Dolan opens hers, there’s the same invite; an’ when Sally Hogan opens hers, out drops the same bit of a card on the floor; an’ Sally laughs, an’ Mary laughs, an’ Jane laughs, an’ the three o’ them, what wi’ the quareness o’ the business, an’ the curiosity of them to see Hannah at her capers, put their heads together, an’ laughs again, an’ settles it that sorrow take them, but go they’ll go. An’ go they did. Aw, yis ... Aw, Lord, Lord,” laughed Anne, turning up her eyes. “Lord, Lord!”
“Aw, childer, dear,” giggled Judy, with a heaving of her narrow shoulders. “Aw, go they did!”
“Good girl, Anne,” said I, and slapped my leg “my roarin’ girl! Aw, an’ go they did, Judy—go they did.”
“Well, hearts alive,” Anne went on, “Wednesday evenin’ comes at last; an’ sharp at five o’clock up me brave Jane Flaherty steps along the lane, crosses the yard, an’ mindin’ her manners, knocks twice on Hannah’s back door—then turns, an’ wi’ the dog yelpin’ at her, an’ the gander hissin’ like a wet stick on a fire, waits like a beggarwoman on the step. But divil a one comes to the door; aw, not a one. An’ sorrow a soul budged inside; aw, not a soul. So round turns Jane, lifts her fist again, hits the door three thundering bangs, an’ looks another while at the gander. Not a budge in the door, not a move inside; so Jane, not to be done out of her tay, lifts the latch,—an’, sure as the sun was shinin’, but the bolt was shot inside. ‘Well, dang me,’ says Jane, an’ hits the door a kick, ‘but this is a fine way to treat company,’ says she, an’ rattles the latch, an’ shakes it. At last, in the divil of a temper, spits on the step, whips up her skirts, an’ cursin’ Hannah high up an’ low down, starts for home.
“She got as far as the bend in the lane, an’ there meets Mary Dolan.