Castle Freyne was quite full. It was simpler after a long day for people who were not staying to bring their clothes and not go home to change, so the house was all bustle when they got in. Anne, in the basement, was basking in a torrid heat, with two amateur kitchen-maids sitting among piles of feathers in the scullery and at least three turkeys ready to bake. Christmas was Christmas in Anne's eyes. The discarding of sodden garments, the joys of very hot water, preceded tea for those who had hunted. It was laid in the dining-room to-day, and included poached eggs and fried ham.
Lancelot was ensconced by the fireplace, roasting slowly, his leg propped on another chair and his expression one of heated misery.
"You may talk of hunting, Darby," said the second Master, bursting in happily; "but we left you to-day, my boy. Whatever took you off up by the ford? We struck the line just where I galloped to, guessing we should, and I clapped them on, and we ran over the big fields."
Mr. Freyne, completely happy, bustled in to enlarge on his success. How he had cast the hounds, and cheered them, despite some absurd blowing of Darby's, up the river, and how they had run on after the fox.
Darby leant on his stick and grunted.
"The fox which Darby had absolutely said was a hare. Over the big fields, running like pigeons, across Clanchy's, up Dhura Hill, fluting, and—er—then"—George Freyne looked inquiringly at his brother-in-law—"my mare refused—and afterwards——"
"They went on to a very large bog," said the General dryly, "and we—Gheena and I—lost them."
Mr. Freyne sat down to enjoy his tea; lost hounds tell no tales, he said importantly; that no doubt they were beaten there.
Darby said slowly that Beauty could never be beaten. She would run the spectral huntsman across a glacier if she got her nose down.
"Then he got in," said George Freyne. "You got them in the road. He got in."