“I am glad to hear that,” broke in Sir Harry. “Tell me where you live; where is your home?” “My home? Oh, I don’t know where it is, so I cannot oblige ye.” “Come, come! think again, and I’ll give you a sovereign.” “You are very free with that sovereign, sir.” “Yes. This particular one doesn’t happen to be mine. I won it as a bet from the dumb gentleman. He bet you would not be here. I saw you as we passed. And he bet something else, too.” “What else?” “That you would not be pretty.” “Neither I am--no more nor yourselves. Are you the two frights in goggles that went by on the motor? What has become of it?” “It’s rather delicate just now.” “Well, then, I’m glad, and I hope it may die. I hate motors!” “Really. And why?” “Because they go hooting through the world, never caring what they do. One of them killed our neighbour’s old dog Joe, too stiff to clear out of the road; and as to the fowls and ducks they run over, and those no use after, there are scores!” “Would you permit me to take a photograph?” said Sir Harry, suddenly swinging round a small snapshotting camera. “Certainly, sir. You may take the cat. Here he is,” pulling him up, “and proud to sit for you”--and she held him in her arms. A pretty picture! Snap! It was done--“Beauty and the Beast.” “And now for yourself!” “What do you want it for, sir?” “To keep as the portrait of the prettiest Irish girl I’ve ever seen.” “What would you say, if I told you I was not Irish?” “Oh, I say! Come”--and he laughed; “you can scarcely expect me to believe _that_! Now, please stay still for one moment. There! I’ve taken two.” “What’s going on here?” said a hoarse voice, and Patsie Maguire came suddenly through a gap in the opposite wall. Patsie, in his dark blue Sunday clothes, looking handsome, ill-tempered, and excited. “I’m after having my picture took,” explained Mary. “This is a queer sort of business,” he growled, stepping over the stile, and standing beside her within the gate. Patsie had “a drop taken,” as the saying is. Raw, bad whisky was working in his veins; his brain was in a state of wild confusion--jealousy and vanity were seething within him, and he had come to the conclusion that he would not let Mary Foley stir a toe out of the place, dead or alive. “So yer at yer old games,” he began, in a blustering voice, addressing himself to Mary, “talking at the corner, talking to any one. Faith!”--to the strangers--“she’s the gabbiest little divil in Ireland!” Mary glanced at him furtively. Patsie Maguire was drunk. “An’ now she’s pratin’ to gentlemen no less; and for a change--but let me tell ye,”--here he paused and swayed a little--“yer--not--the first gentlemen--that Mary here--has talked to. Aye”--and his wink expressed malicious significance--“Mary knows that I’m telling the holy truth, don’t ye, Mary, me darlin’?” The girl’s colour had faded; there was a momentary tightening of the lips, but she merely said--