Sunshine was on Luggela, and Horatia’s ailments were abating, so, as her temper was not alleviated, Lucilla thought peace would be best preserved by sallying out to sketch. A drawing from behind the cross became so engrossing that she was sorry to find it time for the early dinner, and her artistic
pride was only allayed by the conviction that she should always hate what recalled Glendalough.
Rashe was better, and was up and dressed. Hopes of departure produced amity, and they were almost lively over their veal broth, when sounds of arrival made Lucilla groan at the prospect of cockney tourists obstructing the completion of her drawing.
‘There’s a gentleman asking to see you, Miss.’
‘I can see no one.’
‘Cilla, now do.’
‘Tell him I cannot see him,’ repeated Lucy, imperiously.
‘How can you be so silly? he may have heard of our boxes.’
‘I would toss them into the lake rather than take them from him.’
‘Eh! pray let me be present when you perform the ceremony! Cilla in the heroics! Whom is she expecting?’ said a voice outside the door, ever ajar, a voice that made Lucilla clasp her hands in ecstasy.