‘It’s the simple truf he’s tould ye,’ said the patient, in a feeble voice. ‘What do ye be tryin’ to frighten him for?’
‘Oh, you’re coming round, are you? asked the assistant; ‘didn’t expect it. That’s a pretty nasty crack you’ve got.’
‘Twill take more than that to kill Norah MacMulty,’ said the young woman, struggling into a sitting posture, and beginning mechanically to arrange her disordered dress. ‘The MacMultys is a fine fightin’ famly, and it runs in the blood to take a cracked skull quite kindly. I’ll be takin’ a glass at the Grapes, and then I’ll be goin’ home, but not till I’ve thanked ye kindly. Has anybody seen me bonnut?’
‘I shan’t allow you to go to the Grapes to-night, my good woman,’ said the assistant. ‘Where do you live?’
She named her address, a wretched little row of tenement houses some ten score yards away.
‘Me trade, is it?’ she answered, with a feeble, good-humoured laugh. ‘Tis not much of a trade, anyhow; I’m a street-walker.’
She made the statement wholly commonplace in tone, and gave it with as little reluctance or embarrassment as if she had laid claim to the most respectable calling in the world.
The assistant stared and laughed, but she caught Paul’s look of amazed horror.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘why wouldn’t I be? I’ll go to hell for it, av coorse, for that’s God’s will on all of us. Tis hard lines, too, for ‘tis none so fine a life when ye’ve tried ut. Thank ye kindly, both of yez. I’d pay ye for ut, but ye’d not be takin’ a poor girl’s last shillin’, I know, from the good-tempered purty face of ye.’
‘You’re sweetly welcome,’ said the assistant, busily washing his hands at the sink, and looking sideways at her. ‘You’re a queer fish, any way.’
‘’Tis a queer fish I am,’ she answered, ‘an’ by-an’-by they’ll have the cookin’ of me. Fried soul,’ she said, with a faint laugh. ‘Begobs! that’s funny; I never thought o’that before. Fried soul!’
‘Faith,’ she said, ‘I’m just past two-an’-twinty. ‘Tis an agein’ life, an’ I look more; but ‘tis God’s truf I’m tellin’ ye.’
‘Very likely,’ said the assistant, towelling his hands.
‘I’ll go now,’ said Norah MacMulty. ‘I’m a trifle unsteady with the shakin’, but the drink’s out of me, worse luck! and I’ll be able to walk.’