"Of course I'm glad to see you, Lady Pat," he said at length; "but you ought not to come here alone, you know."
"I'm not alone," she insisted. "Riley is down-stairs in my pony cart. Phillips didn't know where you lived, but he's only a groom, so I brought Riley. Now, how shall we get rid of him, and have you made a hundred thousand dollars with my money?"
"I'm ashamed to say I haven't—I was too late. The storks had all gone
South for the winter, but I must give you back your bank."
Allen turned into his room, closely followed by Patricia.
"Then you haven't money enough to get married?" she asked in a pathetic little voice. Suddenly her face brightened. "But I don't mind; I'll keep house for you without any money; and storks always come to newly married people, I've heard them say so."
"We couldn't do that, Lady Pat; we'd starve to death unless we ate the storks. Come, let's go and find Riley."
But Riley's anxiety had resulted in his anticipating them, and the familiar face at that moment showed above the stairway, as the old man approached them, out of breath.
"Ah, there ye are, praise be ter th' Virgin Mary," he panted. "Ah, sich a mess as ye're gettin' poor old Riley in. I cudn't hilp it, Misther Allen, I cudn't nohow," heading off any criticism from that quarter—"she wud have it, and that's th' ind iv it. I'm thinkin' that's why they named her Miss Pat—'tis th' Irish persistency iv her name that crops out, an' th' cajolery. I cudn't hilp it, nohow."
"Of course he couldn't help it." Patricia assented. "I had to see you, and some one had to show me where you lived. But you may go now if you want to, Riley."
"We had better come inside and talk it over—if we can get in," Allen suggested, opening the door again, and pushing the things one side.