As they passed in, Paulina turned away.  Before Mrs. Fitzpatrick shut the door, Irma caught her arm and whispered in her ear.

“Paulina, is it?  Let her shtop—­” She paused, looking at the Russian.

“Your pardon?” he enquired with a bow.

“It’s Paulina,” said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, her voice carrying the full measure of her contempt for the unhappy creature who stood half turning away from the door.

“Ah, let her go.  It is no difference.  She is a sow.  Let her go.”

“Thin she’s not your wife at all?” said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, her wrath rising at this discovery of further deception in Paulina.

He shrugged his shoulders.  “She was once.  I married her.  She is wife no longer.  Let her go.”

His contemptuous indifference turned Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s wrath upon him.

“An’ it’s yersilf that ought to take shame to yersilf fer the way ye’ve treated her, an’ so ye should!”

The man waved his hand as if to brush aside a matter of quite trifling moment.

“It matters not,” he repeated.  “She is only a cow.”

“Let her come in,” whispered Irma, laying her hand again on Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s arm.

“Sure she will,” cried the Irish woman; “come in here, you poor, spiritless craythur.”

Irma sprang down the steps, spoke a few hurried words in Galician.  Poor Paulina hesitated, her eyes upon her husband’s face.  He made a contemptuous motion with his hand as if calling a dog to heel.  Immediately, like a dog, the woman crept in and sat far away from the fire in a corner of the room.

“Ye’ll pardon me,” said Mrs. Fitzpatrick to Kalmar, “fer not axin’ ye in at the first; but indade, an’ it’s more your blame than mine, fer sorra a bit o’ thim takes afther ye.”

“They do not resemble me, you mean?” said the father.  “No, they are the likeness of their mother.”  As he spoke he pulled out a leather case, opened it and passed it to Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

“Aw, will ye look at that now!” she cried, gazing at the beautiful miniature.  “An’ the purty face av her.  Sure, it’s a rale queen she was, an’ that’s no lie.  An’ the girl is goin’ to be the very spit av her.  An’ the bye, he’s got her blue eyes an’ her bright hair.  It’s aisy seen where they git their looks,” she added, glancing at him.

“Mind yer manners, now thin,” growled Tim, who was very considerably impressed by the military carriage and the evident “quality” of their guest.

“Yes, the children have the likeness of their mother,” said the father in a voice soft and reminiscent.  “It is in their behalf I am here to-night, Madam—­what shall I have the honour to name you?”

“Me name, is it?” cried Mrs. Fitzpatrick.  “Mishtress Timothy Fitzpatrick, Monaghan that was, the Monaghans o’ Ballinghalereen, an owld family, poor as Job’s turkey, but proud as the divil, an’ wance the glory o’ Mayo.  An’ this,” she added, indicating her spouse with a jerk of her thumb, “is Timothy Fitzpatrick, me husband, a dacent man in his way.  Timothy, where’s yer manners?  Shtand up an’ do yer duty.”