“Kerrigan—Thomas Kerrigan,” that gentleman said promptly.
“My father and mother,” continued the girl. “Reilly’s their name. The gentleman was very kind. He lost his car to return my handkerchief.”
Her father, a weather-beaten little man, looked Kerrigan over coolly as he nodded.
“Faith!” he said at last, “I’m thinkin’ he’s likely to lose his supper before he returns it; he’s got it in his hand yet.”
The girl laughed.
“It was not mine, you know,” she explained.
“I don’t see the joke,” her father said irritably. “What’s all the stir, Kate?”
“Ye’ll see ut in time,” Kerrigan replied with composure. “’T is like this: she liked me betther nor the bit of white rag, so she took me instid.”
“She was always greedy,” replied Reilly; “she’d take the biggest lump iv’ry time, not countin’ the quality.” He turned to his wife. “Do ye mind thot, Mary?”
“I don’t understand a’ the nonsince,” replied his wife, a meek little wisp of a woman. She rose and went into the house, followed by Kate.