The General looked anxious, but was reassured by a murmur in a language not English and the departure of Hook with the bags.
The expected flood of information was not forthcoming at dinner. The lean man seemed only to have heard the usual rumours, and to be as firmly convinced as everyone that all the right men were in the wrong places, and that the one person to adjust matters had not yet been found. When he did talk, it was of Ireland and the Irish, and he grew absolutely cheerful when he heard of a prospective hunt.
"Met Lindlay," he jerked out. "Yes. Told me he he'd spared no money with the pack here; poor country but great sport. Any experience hunting?" he jerked out at Darby.
"Twenty years ... compressed," said Darby thoughtfully. "Hares, foxes, cats, dogs. May say I've a good deal now, I think, sir."
General Brownlow considered the list mentally. "Yes. India; jackals, dogs ... but cats. You don't mean tigers, Dillon?"
"No, cats," said Darby briefly. "They are ... well ... it's not exactly Lindlay's pack we're hunting here," he added.
"That man is making such a muddle of waiting," whispered Gheena, when her stepfather began to talk again. "He upset one plate of soup, and he's rigid now with the bread-sauce at mother's wrong side. She'll never notice him there."
Just then George Freyne, looking round fussily, remarked "Sauce for the General's partridge" very sharply to Naylour.
"Rooted with it he is," said Naylour in one of his audible asides. "Hurry along, young man, will ye!"
The young man feverishly left Mrs. Freyne's right hand and transferred himself to the General's, Naylour remarking "War ways," firmly removing the tureen and ordering the stranger to shove the bell for the lift.