"'Tisn't that I'm crying for at all," sobbed Mrs. Twomey, a deplorable
little figure, her head bent down, while she wiped violently and
alternately her nose and her eyes in her sacking apron. "But it is
what the people is sayin' on the roads about" (sob) "about"
(sniff)--

"About _what_?' said Dick, who was being bored.

"About your Honour!" returned Mrs. Twomey, in a sort of roar.

"And what the devil are they saying about me?"

"God forbid that I'd put down any dirty stain before your Honour,"
sobbed Mrs. Twomey, recurring to her earlier metaphor; "it's that big
horse that ye're afther buyin' from Docthor Mangan; they say that he
gave him to ye too cheap on the head of it--"

"On the head of what, woman?" shouted Dick, now passing, by the
well-worn channel of anxiety, from boredom to anger.

"On the head of the Dispinsary! Sure they says 'twas your Honour gave
it to Danny Aherne!"

It is unnecessary to record Major Talbot-Lowry's indignation on
hearing this charge. The dairy, with its low ceiling and paven floor,
echoed, submissively, his well-justified strictures on the lies and
evil speaking of his humbler neighbours, and Mrs. Twomey dried her
eyes (much as she would scrub out one of her milk-pans) and hearkened.