it her and Hilton that's to ate aff one dish togither? That rose o' the
valley, that bird wid a song in her face and none an her tongue. That
daisy dot av a thing, steppin' through the world like a sprig o' glory.
Aw, Pierre, thim two!--an' I've divil a scrap to give, good or bad. I've
nothin' at all in the wide wurruld but the clothes an me back, an' thim
hangin' on the underbrush!"--giving a little twist to the twigs. "An'
many a meal an' many a dipper o' drink she's guv me, little smiles
dancin' at her lips."

He sat down in the doorway again, with his face turned towards Pierre,
and the back of his head in the sun. He was a picture of perfect health,
sumptuous, huge, a bull in beauty, the heart of a child looking out of
his eyes, but a sort of despair, too, in his bearing.

Pierre watched him with a furtive humour for a time, then he said
languidly: "Never mind your clothes, give yourself."

"Yer tongue in yer cheek, me spot o' vinegar. Give meself! What's that
for? A purty weddin' gift, says I? Handy thing to have in the house! Use
me for a clothes-horse, or shtand me in the garden for a fairy bower-aw
yis, wid a hole in me face that'd ate thim out o' house and home!"

Pierre drew a piece of brown paper towards him, and wrote on it with a
burnt match. Presently he held it up. "Voila, my simple king, the thing
for you to do: a grand gift, and to cost you nothing now. Come, read it
out, and tell me what you think."

Macavoy took the paper, and in a large, judicial way, read slowly:

"On demand, for value received, I promise to pay to . . . IDA HILTON . . .