“Well, I suppose”—rising as she spoke—“I’d better leave you to do your thinking alone. I can be no help, can I?”
“No—or—By the way! You poke about the neighbourhood a good deal, and are in and out of the houses, looking for bits of china, and studying the people, as you call it. Have you ever come across a place called Foley’s farm?”
“Foley’s farm,” she repeated. “Yes, at Foley’s Corner. Quite a small farmer lives in it, I believe. I stopped there the other day to ask the way, and saw a beautiful girl.”
“Oh, that’s a common sight in these parts.”
“Yes, I know—of a certain style; black hair and grey eyes put in with a dirty finger. But this one is of another type. Chestnut locks, a graceful figure; she carries her head like royalty, and Vandyck would have been proud to have painted her hands, though they are rather red I must confess. I have promised to lend her some magazines, and will take them up to her one of these days.”
“Take me, too—will you?”
“But, Bence, you are not in earnest? Why, you grudge every hour you have not a rod in your hands.”
“I’ll give the fish a holiday. I should like to see something of the natives—the Irish at home, and that sort of thing.”
“All right, then, I will escort you up to ‘Foley’s’ as they call it; only too happy to have your company. Well, good night.”