mouth tried to droop with stubborn ill-temper, but the other twitched with a smile. He shuffled along behind Tim, who followed the Honorable Michael down narrow passageways between the groups of picnic parties.
Barney wagged his head. "There goes Ol' Grievances," he said to the girl. "To-morrah he 'll be tryin' to hang himself fer a traitor."
"Well!" she cried. "Why did he go, anyway? After what he said!"
Barney put her off with a laugh that explained nothing. "Here," he said, slipping his arm behind her. "It makes my back ache to look at you. Leave it be. Sit close an' no one 'll pipe it. Eh? How d' you like youah honey? Ain't I a sweet?"
She tried to reply to him with some dignity, but she had carried the affair too far to be able to retreat. She said, rather wistfully: "You 're makin' fun o' me. I knew you would."
"Jus' tell me that you love me," he replied, "an' I 'll never smile again."
She did not answer him, but she did not move away. She sat gazing out at the shore of Staten Island, over a stretch of water that lay dead in the heat; and her face, in thoughtful repose, showed some dissatisfaction with herself. When she thought of Tim's actions as the cause of her own, she tightened her lips. When she considered the family relations, which the morning had discovered to her, she wrinkled her round forehead in a puzzled frown. She disliked the uncle; and she did not understand how the father could have accepted his
