Mike Guinane and Phil hung upon the outskirts of the tea-party, getting fresh water and toasting more bread, until Phil declared the horses 'd get their deaths and almost ordered a start.
"I am going out again in a day or two," Gheena remarked, as they drove home—"off far away on the cliffs."
"Keep off the cliffs"—Stafford had packed them both in his two-seater and Gheena was close to him—"keep off them." There was a ring of authority in his voice.
"Oh, no doubt you'd like me to," said Gheena icily.
She felt rather than heard a quick sharp sigh and the new car swerved a little.
They found Mr. Freyne, immersed in ill-humour, resting in the library with one foot in an old slipper.
With voluble anger he poured out his story—the horse tripping and falling quite suddenly and running away for a mile and more, and the mud, and his severe pain. Lancelot, pale and unsympathized with, was sitting in a corner without even a cushion for his foot.
"Someone whistled just as I fell," stormed Mr. Freyne, "but no one came to my assistance. Oh, doubtless some ruffian using the stables at Girtnamurragh and whistling warning."
"Horrid trick to play you!" said Stafford sympathetically.
At the word "trick" Dearest George looked thoughtful.