“Oh, Mr. Moriarty, you’ve kissed the blarney stone.”

“Begobs,” responded Dennis, “it needs no blarney stone to say that.  It’s afther sayin’ itself.”

“Peter, have you that opinion?”

“Yes.”  Peter handed her out a beautifully written sheet of script, all in due form, and given an appearance of vast learning, by red ink marginal references to such solid works as “Wheaton,” “Story,” and “Cranch’s” and “Wallace’s” reports.  Peter had taken it practically from a “Digest,” but many apparently learned opinions come from the same source.  And the whole was given value by the last two lines, which read, “Respectfully submitted, Peter Stirling.”  Peter’s name had value at the bottom of a legal opinion, or a check, if nowhere else.

“Look, Mr. Moriarty,” cried Leonore, too full of happiness over this decision of her nationality not to wish for some one with whom to share it, “I’ve always thought I was French—­though I didn’t feel so a bit—­and now Mr. Stirling has made me an American, and I’m so happy.  I hate foreigners.”

Watts laughed.  “Why, Dot.  You mustn’t say that to Mr. Moriarty.  He’s a foreigner himself.”

“Oh, I forgot.  I didn’t think that——­” Poor Leonore stopped there, horrified at what she had said.

“No,” said Peter, “Dennis is not a foreigner.  He’s one of the most ardent Americans I know.  As far as my experience goes, to make one of Dennis’s bulls, the hottest American we have to-day, is the Irish-American.”

“Oh, come,” said Watts.  “You know every Irishman pins his loyalty to the ‘owld counthry.’”

“Shure,” said Dennis, “an’ if they do, what then?  Sometimes a man finds a full-grown woman, fine, an’ sweet, an’ strong, an’ helpful to him, an’ he comes to love her big like.  But does that make him forget his old weak mother, who’s had a hard life av it, yet has done her best by him?  Begobs!  If he forgot her, he wouldn’t be the man to make a good husband.  Oi don’t say Oi’m a good American, for its small Oi feel besides Misther Stirling.  But Oi love her, an’ if she ever wants the arm, or the blood, or the life, av Dennis Moriarty, she’s only got to say so.”

“Well,” said Watts, “this is very interesting, both as a point of view and as oratory; but it isn’t business.  Peter, we came down this morning to take whatever legal steps are necessary to put Dot in possession of her grandmother’s money, of which I have been trustee.  Here is a lot of papers about it.  I suppose everything is there relating to it.”

“Papa seemed to think it would be very wise to ask you to take care of it, and pay me the income, I can’t have the principal till I’m twenty-five.”

“You must tie it up some way, Peter, or Dot will make ducks and drakes of it.  She has about as much idea of the value of money as she has of the value of foreigners.  When we had our villa at Florence, she supported the entire pauper population of the city.”