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When he's sober--and that's not often in these days--he's as sour as
Mother Garth's plums, and when he's tipsy his head's as soft as
poddish."
"It was a sad day for Robbie when his old mother died," said Rotha.
"And that was in one of his bouts" said Liza; "but I thought it had
sobered him forever. He loved the old soul, did Robbie, though he
didn't always do well by her. And now he's broken loose again."
It was clearly as much as Liza could do to control her tears, and,
being conscious of this, she forthwith made a determined effort to
simulate the sternest anger.
"I hate to see a man behave as if his head were as soft as poddish.
Not that _I_ care," she added, as if by an afterthought, and as though
to conceal the extent to which she felt compromised; "it's nothing to
_me_, that I can see. Only Wythburn's a hard-spoken place, and they're
sure to make a scandal of it."
"It's a pity about Robbie," said Rotha sympathetically.
Liza could scarcely control her tears. After she had dashed a drop or
two from her eyes, she said: "I cannot tell what it's all about.


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