Naylour started, so that a bevy of eggs leapt from the china hen on to the floor, and Mrs. Freyne said "Gracious, Dearest, was it suspended animation?"—rather absently, as she watched them smash.
"It was the sister who died." George Freyne invariably bellowed at the slightest check to his flow of conversation. "Eva; she married a General. He was one then, rather. How idiotic you can be, Matilda! And he's been appointed inspector of something—remounts—is coming to Cara, and will stay Friday to Monday here—for Christmas, in fact. Great heavens, that old Naylour! He has had a stroke."
"It was the fear what the Masther said put on me," murmured Naylour contritely. "Not bein' sure what they might be able to do in war-time—an' the gran' eggs losht! Scarce a smhell of the fire they got to-day, Anne bein' repentant for overcookin' thim yestherday." He gathered up an uncooked omelette with two silver tablespoons, murmuring repentance.
"No—we will not have any more—in war-time," said George Freyne frigidly. "There is cold ham and toast. They were quite raw in any case. You can tell Anne."
The ham had worn down to the end which testifies to the good feeding of the pig which provided it, and was principally white fat. George Freyne's hungry resentment was not appeased by the appearance of a round and smoking poached egg done for his stepdaughter, accompanied by toasted ham.
"Anne does it on a fork," said Gheena cheerfully. "There was no waste of frying. Here, Crabbit." She put down half a plateful of ham for the red dog.
"And I am starving. Ring that bell, please, Matilda, and order up cold pheasant. Now, having all been sufficiently amusing, General Brownlow will be here on Friday, and I suggest we get Darby to alter the meet to Saturday, so that he can have a hunt. He rides well, or he used to—and so dreadfully fond of it. Eva died from a fall out hunting."
Darby said "Oh!" thoughtfully. He had not yet gone home, but was staying for Christmas Day. "We'll have to go out Stephen's Day," he said; "but I daresay, if we only draw one covert the extra day, they'll be all right, horses and everything."
"He will tell us news," said George Freyne emphatically, "news which these Comoniques deny us." (I write it according to pronunciation.) "He will have been at the War Office and seen people. And he's rather particular, Darby, and inclined to take things seriously, so we must try to keep the pack together, or nearly. I'll practise hard on the hunting-horn, and Keefe must try to get out, and ... then the horses. He'll want remounts."
"Twenty post-cards," said Darby. "I'll find them in the library, I suppose, George? and someone's sure to be forgotten, even then."