She felt for a moment a revolt against herself for having fallen to the lure and allowed herself to come to friendly terms with him. Then this feeling faded a bit. The very young are very weak in the face of constituted authority--besides, there was always at the back of Pinckney her father's wish. "And then again, on top of that," he went on, "there's the question of your coming to live with us; your father wished it." "In America!" cried Phyl. "Do you mean I am to live in America?" "Well, we live there; why not? It's not a bad place to live in--and what else are you to do?" She could not answer him. This time she saw that the bogey man had got her and no mistake. America to her seemed as far as the moon and far less familiar. If Pinckney had declared that it was necessary for her to die, she would have been a great deal more frightened, but the prospect would not have seemed much more desolate and forbidding and final. He saw at once the trouble in her mind and guessed the cause. He had a rare intuition for reading minds, and it seemed to him he could read Phyl's as easily as though the outside of her head were clear glass--he had cause to modify this cocksure opinion later on. "Don't worry," he said. "If you don't like America when you see it, you can come back to Ireland. I daresay we can arrange something; anyhow, don't let us meet troubles half way." "When am I to go?" said Phyl. "Sure, Phyl, you can stay as long as you like with us," said Mr. Hennessey. "The doors of 10, Merrion Square, are always open to you, and never will they be shut on you except behind your back." Pinckney laughed; and a servant coming in to clear the breakfast things, Hennessey led the way from the room to show Pinckney the premises. CHAPTER VI They crossed the hall, and passing through a green-baize covered door went down a passage that led to the kitchen. "This is the housekeeper's room," said Hennessey, pointing to a half open door, "and the servants' hall is that door beyond. This is the kitchen." They paused for a moment in the great old-fashioned kitchen, with an open range capable of roasting a small ox, one might have fancied. Norah, the cook, was busy in the scullery with her sleeves tucked up, and under the table was seated Susie Gallagher, a small and grubby hanger-on engaged in the task of washing potatoes. The potatoes were beside her on the floor and she was washing them in a tin basin of water with the help of an old nail-brush. There was a horse-shoe hung up, for luck, on the wall over the range, and a pile of dinner plates, from last night's dinner and still unwashed, stood on the dresser, where also stood a half-bottle of Guinness' stout and a tumbler; an old setter bitch lay before the fire and a jackdaw in a wicker cage set up a yell at the sight of the visitors, that brought Norah out of the scullery to receive them, a broad smile on her face and her arms tucked up in her apron.