‘Owen, you’re a trump,’ cried Rashe.
‘How on earth did you know about them?’ inquired his sister.
‘Very simply; crossed from Liverpool yesterday, reconnoitred at your hotel, was shown your telegram, went to the luggage-office, routed out that the things were taking a gentle tour to Limerick, got them back this morning, and came on. And what are you after next?’
‘Home,’ jerked out Lucy, without looking up, thinking how welcome he would have been yesterday, without the goods.
‘Yes, home,’ said Horatia. ‘This abominable sprain will hinder my throwing a line, or jolting on Irish roads, and if Cilla is to be in agonies when she sees a man on the horizon, we might as well never have come.’
‘Will you help me to carry home this poor invalid warrior, Owen?’ said Lucilla; ‘she will permit you.’
‘I’ll put you into the steamer,’ said Owen; ‘but you see, I have made my arrangements for doing Killarney and the rest of it.’
‘I declare,’ said Rashe, recovering benevolence with comfort, ‘if they would send Scott from the castle to meet me at Holyhead, Cilly might as well go on with you. You would be sufficient to keep off the Calthorps.’
‘I’m afraid that’s no go,’ hesitated Owen. ‘You see I had made my plans, trusting to your bold assertions that you would suffer no one to approach.’
‘Oh! never mind. It was no proposal of mine. I’ve had enough of Ireland,’ returned Lucy, somewhat aggrieved.