Dearest George looked bleakly at the bottles of his favourite liqueur which were being opened by Keefe; on the floor stood a degraded row of bottles of the cordial. Green Chartreuse to the farmers! Outside he heard O'Gorman's oily voice.
"I wouldn't mind another glassful, Naylour. I'm beat trotting the whole way, and that's great stuff, not like ginger cordial at all now, is it?"
Mr. Freyne made curious noises in his throat.
"Never," observed Darby softly to Miss Delorme, "be economical without your wife's knowledge. I've never known anyone so hard to corner as Matilda. She reminds me of chasing jelly with a fork; it's always so soft and pleasant, and always at the other end of the plate when you think you've got it."
Darby looked at his watch, but there was no hurry. If a little piece of Castle Freyne was left undrawn no one would grumble except George.
The gathering was suddenly enlivened by shouts from outside—Phil's, as he "practised" the new young lady over some bushes made up on the lawn.
"Sit back! Hould ye howlt! Great begorra! Now, at it agin!"
"Oh, it's lovely!" gasped Psyche, as she bumped from the saddle, gripped the mane, and yet was still there, hanging on.
"Don't be afeard, ye are still above," comforted Phil. "Let ye lane back when ye'd feel him hop and straighten yerself when he dhrops, and the Queen of England couldn't do more. That's bether. Now agin."
Redbird, a sedate little horse, now felt the spirit of the morning enter into him, and suddenly did a little jump not over the bushes.