“Not five yards to look at the prettiest face in Ireland. Come on. Lead the way to the miraculous beauty at the gate. I bet you a sov. she is ugly, or she has gone.”
“Done!” rejoined Sir Harry, and they strolled along down the straight road towards the corner.
“No; there she is!” cried Sir Harry. “I see her dress.”
There she was indeed, still leaning on the gate, so absorbed in her own thoughts that the two gentlemen were within a few yards of her, when she realised their presence with a violent start.
“Good evening,” said Sir Harry, taking off his cap. He had an affable manner of talking to refreshment-room young ladies. “You seem buried in meditation. I’m afraid we disturbed you.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” she answered briskly. Here were some people to talk and chaff with—her very last visitors.
“I expect you were thinking of him,” he suggested, with a significant glance.
She coloured to her hair, and looked haughty.
“Come, come. A pretty girl like you is bound to have a score of lovers.”