"It must come on in a day or two, Miss," said Pat hopefully. "The war has the world an' all muddled up."
Mona was welcomed by Mrs. Freyne. She was at home in ten minutes in the old house; told to call Mrs. Freyne Auntie, and not Aunt—at all costs, not Aunt Matilda. As their relationship was so remote as to be non-existent Mona agreed with faint surprise.
She had been given one of the huge bedrooms looking out on the front, a vast expanse of room, with heavy furniture solidly occupying as much space as it conveniently could—a mighty bed, huge wardrobes in which several spies might be hidden, an arm-chair which it took a strong man to wheel along, and a small grate of dubiously new origin lurking in the vast fireplace. Mr. Freyne had replaced all the old-fashioned bedroom grates by cheap and not too economical substitutes.
Here Psyche the Sprite declared she would be lost, but peered with joy across the expanse of tree-dotted lawn to the grey sea churning ill-humouredly between the low cliffs.
"And you mustn't wink lights at night or we'll have Mr. Keefe up," said Gheena. "We are dreadfully afraid of submarines down here."
Gheena, long limbed, tanned clear brown, with bright hair and deep grey eyes, sat upon the massive arm-chair, not in it, but poised on the broad arm, her arms clasped round her knees, and admired her guest whole-heartedly.
"Psyche," she said; "nothing else. A sprite, Uncle Tony said. I can hardly see you edgeways."
Mona's hands gripped the window-sill; they were slight fragile things, with delicate bones concealed by milk-white skin. Even her eyes were pale, grey-blue, misty and elusive.
"A man on a horse," she announced. "Yes, do call me Psyche; it's pretty. Such a good-looking man. There were no men in Kent, only a curate and some people with wives."
Gheena dropped off her perch to run to the window and see Darby talking to her mother. The unmarred side of his face was towards them. There was no hint of the twisted, shortened limb, and the seam which punctured his right cheek.