Читать книгу Ireland in Travail онлайн

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“Mrs. O’Grady! Mrs. O’Grady!” screamed some one below us. “When do I put the pudden in?”

“Such a girl!” exclaimed Mrs. O’Grady. “She is like a headless cock! It’s half-four now,” she answered. “Use your head! That girl!” she exclaimed to me indignantly, “she doesn’t know the clock. Here you are, mum, a party to see the rooms.”

Mrs. Slaney sat with her back to the door, trimming a hat. Her mouth was full of pins. There were drying bulbs spread out on newspapers over the floor.

“Have you a flat to let?” I asked, as she got up from the chair and came towards us.

“Rooms to let,” she corrected with a smile. “Yes, I have rooms to let.” She eyed the creases in Himself’s trousers. “You’re English? What are you doing in Ireland?” She tried to question us pleasantly. “You’re army, of course? I don’t know that I’d care to let my rooms to army people.”

“We are not army people,” I assured her. “Nothing to do with it.”

“You can’t be too careful,” declared Mrs. Slaney. “I’m sure you’ll understand that. Most of the army people are doing spy work now. At one time they were all right; but that was before the war. They were gentlemen then.”