“Yes.”
“That’s awkward; that’s to-morrow, and your brother Tim Rooney comes up in the morning to stop for a month.”
Mrs. Casey glanced timidly at her daughter, who gave a little shriek.
“It will never do, mamma. Uncle Timothy is too rough, too vulgar, and too careless of what he says and does, to meet Colonel and Mrs. Bowdler. It would destroy us at once. You must telegraph him, papa, not to come till Friday or Saturday.”
“I can’t, me honey, for he started this morning; and may be it’s in Tullamore he is while I’d be wiring to Inchanappa.”
Matilda clasped her hands in a sort of mute despair.
“He cannot dine at this table to-morrow,” she cried. “I’d rather put off the Bowdlers, first.”
“Suppose ye give him an early dinner and plenty of liquor, and send him with Fogarty to the play.”
“We will want Fogarty, papa. His livery opening the door looks very genteel.”
“It won’t do to insult him. Tim has twenty thousand pounds, and you’re his god-daughter, me darling,” said Casey.