"Look!" she resumed, while she bestowed the sovereign in an incredibly
old bag-purse with a brass rim; "tell him there's always one foolish
in a family, and what it is with Masther Larry, he's too give-ish!
That's what he is!"

"You can tell him so yourself," replied Christian. "He'll be home in a
week."

"Very good, faith! There's a welcome before him whatever time he'll
come! Sure I thought he'd be kept back in England till the Christmas?"

"He's finished with school now," said Christian. "He's going abroad
for a bit after Christmas, and then he's going to Oxford!"

The glory in Christian's voice conveyed more to Mrs. Twomey than any
statement of fact could achieve.

"Well, well! I'm proud out of him, the poor child! But I wisht it was
home in his own house he was to be," she replied, raising her skirt,
and stuffing the purse into a large pocket that hung round her waist
over a red flannel petticoat; "han't he lessons enought learnt?"

"Oh, but he _loves_ going to Oxford, Mrs. Twomey," said
Christian; "he's looking forward to it awfully; and _I'm_ going
to France to do lessons, too! I'll be talking French to you, Mrs.
Twomey, when I come back!"

Mrs. Twomey uttered a screech of well-simulated horror.