“Get out,” she replied; “do you think I'd think it worth my while to answer the likes o' you? I'd see you farther than I could look first. You, indeed! faugh! musha bad luck to your impidence!”
“Oh, i' you plaise, ma'am,” said Biddy, dropping a courtesy, that might well be termed the very pink of politeness—“we hope you'll show yourself a betther Christin than to be ignorant o' your catechize. So. ma'am, if it 'ud be plaisin' to you afore the company maybe you'd answer it.”
“Who made you my misthress, you blaggard flipe? who gave you authority to ax me sich a question?” replied the other. “A fellow-servant like myself! to the devil I pitch you. You, indeed! Faix, it's well come up wid the likes o' you to ballyrag over me.”
“Well, but ma'am dear, will you answer—that is, i' you plaise, for sure we can't forget our manners, you know—will you jist answer what I axed you? Oh, be me cowl, your face condimns you, my lady!” said Biddy, abruptly changing her tone; “it does, you yolla Mullatty, it does. You bethrayed the masther's house, an' Miss Oona, too, you villin o' blazes! If you could see your face now—your guilty face!”
The spirit of her antagonist, being that of a woman, could bear no more. The last words were scarcely uttered, when Lowry made a spring like a tigress at her opponent, who, however, received this onset with a skill and intrepidity worthy of Penthesilea herself. They were immediately separated, but not until they had twisted and twined about one another two or three times, after which, each displayed, by way of a trophy, a copious handful of hair that had changed proprietor-ship during their brief but energetic conflict.
In addition to this, there were visible on Kitty's face five small streams of liquid gore, which, no doubt, would have been found to correspond with the red expanded talons of her antagonist.
John O'Brien then put the question seriously to Lowry, who, now that her blood was up, or probably feeling that she had betrayed herself, declined to answer it at all.
“I'll answer nothin' I don't like,” she replied, “an' I'll not be ballyraged by any one—not even by you, Misther John; an' what's more, I'll lave the sarvice at the shriek o' day to-morrow. I wouldn't live in the house wid that one; my life 'udn't be safe undher the wan roof wid her.”
“Thin you'll get no carrecther from any one here,” said Mrs. O'Brien; “for, indeed, any way, there was never a minute's peace in the kitchen since you came into it.”
“Divil cares,” she replied, with a toss of her head; “if I don't, I must only live widout it, and will, I hope.”