"Knowing Mrs. Freyne's ginger cordial, I'll have some," said O'Gorman, wiping his forehead. "That's a great plowder when you're late, Freyne, eight miles out of the town."
Miss Louisa O'Donnell, a coy and dark-haired damsel of uncertain years, also gladly accepted. She had gone through life offering unstinted admiration to mankind, hoping it might induce one of them to take it as a permanent tonic to his life; but she remained Louisa O'Donnell still—with a complexion which Darby said unkindly it was a good thing the rain washed sometimes, and a lean angular figure.
"Indeed, just the littlest taste, Mr. Freyne," she said sweetly. "My! isn't the hunting cap very becoming to a good-looking man. It will be quite a loss when we have the Master out again."
Dearest George preened peacock-wise in the sunshine, glared down at his white leathers and immaculate boots, and strode, spurs ringing on the gravel, towards the hall. "Gheena, two cordials."
But Gheena was on her way to coax pretty Jane O'Dea, a giggling bride-elect, from her horse and bring her in for some tea.
Dearest George ran up the shallow steps to note quite a crowd of men round the table in the hall, and then to call imperiously to his wife.
Her stout, fair comeliness set off by a well-made dark habit, she was standing talking to Stafford.
"Yes, Dearest. Naylour, two glasses."
Mr. Freyne, receiving them, noted with surprise that the hue of the liqueur was green, and turned in amazement, giving the tray to Naylour, who shuffled, a white-haired Ganymedes, out amongst the crowd.
"And oh, Dearest George," beamed Matilda Freyne, "I found the old cordial which was never corked properly put out by mistake, and you were outside, so I got out the green Chartreuse you put away when war was declared instead. The other things were locked up, and the Chartreuse was handy in the dining-room press. Wasn't I right, Dearest?"