"And we thought if our wounded hero would recite—his khaki and the crutches, you know—something quite simple, of course—cheery."
Lancelot, swaying on his sticks, dived in the recesses of his mind, and remembered that he had done the "Burial of Sir John Moore" in red velvet and a lace collar at home when he was ten.
When Psyche said that she was interested in such a burial, Mrs. Freyne explained at some length that, of course, Lance did not mean Sir John Moore had put on a red velvet frock to be interred in, but that was what Lancelot had worn to show off in.
"The seven-thirty from Cortra will be in time," said Miss O'Toole eagerly, "and we'll have crowds. Then light refreshments, sandwiches and so on given, and charged a shilling each for it; they'll catch the eleven-thirty back—the people I mean—or have a special, or perhaps everyone will motor."
Mrs. Freyne thought it would be dreadful if the concert dragged on and people had to run away in the middle of God Save the King or a sandwich.
The glittering brightness of the morning was increasing. It was almost summerlike when they opened the door again and stood in the soft air.
"You might drive me in for those stockings, Gheena," said Lancelot. "Any day will do for old hounds, and I may have twinges to-morrow."
"You'll open with the Marseillaise, and Mrs. Brady is learning the Russian anthem on the harmonium. It will be magnificent! I'll put you down to help with the supper, Mrs. Freyne—cake and sandwiches and anything else. And—I'll drive you to the village, Mr. Freyne. It will only do the stubborn pony good."
Gheena said "Splendid!" in relieved tones. Lancelot had hobbled in; he disliked too much fresh air.
"Lancelot, you can go to the village," called his aunt loudly.