Читать книгу Ireland in Travail онлайн

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“That’s a good idea; but what shall we let ourselves in for?”

“We’ve got to die somehow some day.”

We walked along a street in the neighbourhood of Stephen’s Green. Somewhere about the middle, on the right-hand side, a cab was drawn up, and luggage was being brought out by a bibulous-looking cabman.

“That looks hopeful,” Himself said. “Some one is clearing out.”

We mounted the steps before the door was shut.

A middle-aged servant stood on the top step, directing the cabman with his last load. She had black hair, an apron, sand-shoes—they had started life white—and her sleeves were rolled up.

“Are there any flats to let here?” I asked hurriedly.

Before replying, she looked us up and down in the Irish way.

“There are,” she said, at last. “There do be two, and some one’s just after leaving now.”

“Can we see any one?”

“You can. Mrs. Slaney’s upstairs.”

We went inside.

The hall floor was depressing. The stair rods endangered our ascent. The stair carpet had once been red.

“I’ve not been able to sweep to-day,” said the servant. “The mistress was after giving the loan of the broom next door, and it hasn’t come back yet.”