(http://i1133.photobucket.com/albums/m592/MistressofPen/Rachel/rachelmcadams100.jpg)<br/><br/>Irene was playing up the accent with another from the olde sod.  Of course, Irene wasn't born in Ireland, she was born in Boston.  But, the man enjoyed thinking she was as Irish as her name.  No need to tell the poor bloke that her husband was Irish and also dead.  She poured his whisky and poured one for herself at his insistence.  She could handle a good bit of alcohol, but it was early so she only pretended to drink, slamming the empty shot down and laughing with him before turning to spit the whisky out.  It wasn't the good stuff.  Not too many cared about the history of the bottle, just the potency.<br/><br/>She saw her boss enter the room, as did every person in the house.  Irene smiled; now, there was a woman who commanded a room.  Sometimes she wondered if Guinevera even noticed.  She nodded to the woman and spun down the bar to pour a pint for a couple of scruffy gents who seemed more interested in her corset contents.  She leaned on the bar, locking eyes with first one, then the other.  "If you have the coin, boys, I'll give ya' a toss," she said with a wink.  Her pale blue-green eyes, fringed with thick dark lashes were a striking combination and, when the gents weren't properly focused, often lent her an aid to draw them back to the present.<br/><br/>When Guinevera moved up to her, Irene stilled, listening.  "I'm pouring as fast as I can, ma'am.  And, we're having a right fine party," she said, winking at the pair once more.<br/><br/>Her attention strayed to the statuesque figure of another girl.  Irene glanced around the room, which would be the most likely to want to take the woman on?  she wondered.  She drew another glass, poured some of the better whisky in and slid it down the bar to her.