‘The very prettiest things of you, of course’—sardonically—‘so keep up your courage.’ ‘She will come?’—nervously. ‘On Thursday.’ ‘And you?’ ‘When you and she have reached the point of open war, I dare say she will drop me a line, to come to her rescue.’ ‘It will be to mine,’ says she, smiling, but very faintly. Tears are in her eyes. ‘You—you will come with her, won’t you? Don’t let me have to see her alone at first. You know her, and I don’t. And you—’ ‘Very well, I’ll bring her,’ says Wyndham, with an inward groan. What the deuce is going to be the end of it all? He does not leave by the little green gate this time, but going down at a swinging pace (that has a good deal of temper in it) to the principal entrance, meets there with Mrs. Moriarty, who has been on the look-out for him for the past half-hour. ‘An’ did ye hear what happened to Denis, yer honour?’ ‘To Denis?’—abstractedly. Then, recovering himself, and with a good deal of his late temper still upon him: ‘Of course I’ve been wondering all day where he was. Not a soul to attend to me. He was drunk, as usual, I suppose.’ ‘Fegs, you’ve guessed it,’ says Mrs. Moriarty, clapping her hands with unbounded admiration. ‘Dhrunk he was—the ould reprobate!’ ‘Well, I hope he’ll turn up this evening, at all events,’ says Wyndham. ‘It is extremely uncomfortable, going on like this. If he can’t attend to me, I’ll have to get another man. I have borne a good deal already, and I hope you will let him fully understand that if he isn’t at my rooms at seven I shall dismiss him.’ ‘An’ who’d blame ye?’ says Mrs. Moriarty. ‘Faith, I’ve often thought of dismissing him meself. But’—slowly—‘he can’t be at yer rooms at seven, yer honour.’ ‘And why not?’—angrily. ‘He’s bruk his arm, sir.’ ‘Broke his arm?’ ‘Just that, sir, bad scran to him! An’ the docther says he never saw a worse compound fraction in his life. ’Twas all through Timsey Mooney. Timsey and him’s at war for a long time, an’ yestherday Timsey said he’d break his head, an’ with that Denis said he’d have the life ov him; and ’twas the divil’s own row they had afther that, only’—with a regretful air—‘it was Denis’s arm that got bruk, an’ not Timsey’s head.’ ‘So Denis got his arm broken?’ ‘Yes, sir. An’ that Timsey Mooney as sound as iver! Not a scratch on him. I’ve alwas tould ye that there’s nayther luck nor grace wid Denis. But what am I wastin’ words on him at all for? ’Tis about the young lady I’m curious. She’s to stay, sir?’ ‘Yes—yes. I told you that before. And I have arranged with a friend of mine, a very accomplished lady, to come down here and live with her as a companion.’ ‘A companion is it?’ Mrs. Moriarty strokes her beard. ‘She’s been very continted wid me,’ says she. ‘I dare say. But this lady, Miss Manning, is to be a governess to her, to teach her—to see to her manners, and—’