Psyche jumped off; she was riding in her everyday tweed skirt, having been afraid to put on a habit, and Phil led the horses down the lane, receiving promises of rugs from Stafford.
The wind was cold; they were all gathered in the shelter of the hedges when the clip-clop of a horse sounded coming down from Castle Freyne.
The bright sunshine flickered on a white horse's coat.
"It's Dearest!" Gheena leapt through the gap off the road. "He's coming here. He must see us if he passes before we have time to hide behind that gorse, and he'll never forgive me. Hide the horses. Darby, get up; call back Phil!"
Darby said hastily that Mr. Freyne might be going to the village. "And, in any case, he can see over the low bank, and there's no time to get to the yard," he added hopefully.
They all crouched closely in the warm spring sunshine, Gheena leaning against the bank, peeping over.
"And I told him I could not come to look over trout-flies, because I had business," said Darby. "And he's here, so I'm caught too."
Dearest George rode along airily, at peace with the world and secure in a good track, the white horse walking quickly.
"My horse," said Psyche.
"You couldn't flash a foot at him and blind him, I suppose?" suggested Darby, looking at Mrs. Weston's green stockings.