“Ay, achora, it's you that laves nothing undone that ought to be done; an' so it is here, sure enough.”
“Why, then, Gerald,” asked Tom M'Mahon, “in the name o' wonder what makes you stick to the meal instead o' the soap when you're washin' yourself?”
“Throth, an' I ever will, Tom, an' for a good raison—becaise it's best for the complexion.”
The unconscious simplicity with which Cavanagh uttered this occasioned loud laughter, from which Kathleen herself was unable to refrain.
“By the piper, Gerald,” said M'Mahon, “that's the best thing I h'ard this month o' Sundays. Why, it would be enough for one o' your daughters to talk about complexion. Maybe you paint too—ha! ha! ha!”
Hanna now put in her head, and asked “what is the fun?” but immediately added, “Kathleen, here's a message for you.”
“For me!” said Kathleen; “what is it?”
“Here's Peety Dhu's daughter, an' she says she has something to say to you.”
“An' so Rosha Burke,” said Mrs. Cavanagh, “has taken her to live wid them; I hope it'll turn out well for the poor thing.”
“Will you come out, Kathleen,” said Hanna, again peeping in; “she mustn't tell it to anyone but yourself.”