"Come in, whoever you are!" she
said. "It is rather infernal certainly. I'll light a candle in a
moment--as soon as I can find some matches."
She saw a dim, broad figure standing in front of her and heard a
long, soft whistle of dismay.
"I beg your pardon, madam," said the voice that had spoken such
hearty invective a few seconds before. "Sure, I had no idea I was
overheard. And I hope that I'll not have prejudiced you at all
with the violence of me language. But it's in the air of the
country, so to speak. And we all come to it in time. If it's a
match that you're wanting, I've got one in my pocket this minute
which I'll hand over with all the good will in the world if you'll
do me the favour to wait."
Sylvia waited. She knew the sort of face that went with that
voice, and it did not surprise her when the red Irish visage and
sandy brows beamed upon her above the flickering candle. The laugh
she had repressed a moment before rose to her lips. There was
something so comic in this man's appearance just when she had been
strung up for tragedy.
He looked at her with the eyes of a child, smiling good-humouredly
at her mirth. "Sure, you're putting the joke on me," he said.
"They all do it. Where can I have strayed to? Is this a fairy
palace suddenly sprung up in the desert, and you the Queen of No
Man's Land come down from your mountain-top to give me shelter?"
She shook her head, still laughing, "No, I've never been to the
mountain-top.
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