“Well, dears,” Anne went on, “in the three walks, bonnets an’ all, an’ sits them down along the wall on three chairs, an’ watches Kitty close the door; then looks at each other in a puzzled kind o’ way, an’, after that, without openin’ a lip, casts their eyes about the room. ’Twas the funniest kind of a place, Jane allowed, that iver she dropped eyes on. There was a sheep-skin, lyin’ woolly side up, in front o’ the fireplace, an’ a calf-skin near the windy, an’ a dog’s skin over be the table, an’ the floor was painted brown about three fut all round the walls. There was pieces of windy-curtain over the backs o’ the chairs; there was a big fern growin’ in an ould drain-pipe in the corner; there was an ould straw hat o’ John’s stuffed full o’ flowers an’ it hangin’ on the wall, an’ here an’ there, all round it an’ beside it were picters cut from the papers an’ then tacked on the plaster. Ye could hardly see the mantelshelf, Jane allowed, for all the trumpery was piled on it, dinglum-danglums of glass an’ chaney, an’ shells from the say, an’ a sampler stuck in a frame, an’ in the middle of all a picter of Hannah herself got up in all her finery. An’ there was books, an’ papers, an’ fal-lals, an’ the sorrow knows what, lyin’ about; an’ standin’ against the wall, facin’ the windy, was a wee table, wi’ a cloth on it about the size of an apron, an’ it wi’ a fringe on it, no less, an’ it spread skew-wise an’ lookin’ for all the world like a white ace o’ diamonds; an’ on the cloth was a tray wi’ cups an’ saucers, an’ sugar an’ milk, an’ as much bread an’ butter, cut as thin as glass, as you’d give a sick child for its supper.... ‘Aw, heavenly hour,’ cried Anne, ‘heavenly hour!’
“Aw, childer, dear,” cried Judy.
“Aw, woman alive,” said I. “Aw, Judy, dear.”
“Well, childer, the three looks at all, an’ looks at each other, an’ shifts on their chairs, an’ looks at each other again, an’ says Mary Dolan at last:—
“‘We’re in clover, me dears,’ says she, ‘judgin’ be the spread beyont’—and she nods at the wee table.
“‘Ah that’il do for a start,’ says Sally Hogan; ‘but where in glory are we all to put our legs under that wee table? Sure it’l be an ojus squeeze.’
“‘It will so,’ says Jane Flaherty, ‘it will so. But isn’t it powerful quare o’ Hannah to keep us sittin’ here so long in our bonnets an’ shawls, an’ us dreepin’ wi’ the heat?’
“‘It’s the quarest hole I iver was put in,’ says Mary Dolan, ‘an’ if this is grandeur, give me the ould kitchen at home wi’ me feet on the hearth an’ me tay on a chair.... Phew,’ says Mary, an’ squints round at the windy, ‘phew, but it’s flamin’ hot! Aw,’ says she, an’ makes a dart from her chair, ‘dang me, but I’ll burst if I don’t get a mouthful o’ fresh air.’ An’ just as she had her hand on the sash to lift it, the door opens an’ in steps me darlin’ Hannah.