Gheena flew to her mother, who was bedewing socks with facile tears. Matilda Freyne explained that a wife must take her husband's advice, and that Dearest George had fully explained the urgency of everything.
"If you married Lancelot, darling Gheena," she said hopefully, "you could ask him about things. You see, the difficulty with you is that you are always asking yourself—and now I have dropped three stitches, and I must call Mary Anne."
Gheena refrained from bitter retort. So far the unending battle between her and her stepfather had been one of manoeuvring, firing blank shells; they had pulled in different directions, Gheena always sublimely certain of ultimate success. Now she was faced suddenly by a mobilized foe and was frightened.
"Your Dearest—that is, Dearest George—means it," said Mrs. Freyne tearfully. "And I——"
"I won't vex you, Mumsie," said Gheena gently, just as a messenger rode up with a message from Cahercalla.
It stated in the long pointed writing of Lancelot's mother that the boy was fretting and ill.
"He has had a complete set-back and refused even meringues and golden plover for dinner," wrote Mrs. Freyne. "He is now still in bed suffering from the shock of this unforeseen upset. Why, when everything was so absolutely suitable, Gheena could not. She had better come over at once before Lancelot's luncheon is due."
Gheena backed towards the door, listening to the reading of the letter. Then as Dearest was called for, she swung out hatless and raced into the wood with Crabbit at her heels, and slipped through the gardens into the stables. The swift saddling of Greybird was followed by her escape down the back avenue at a gallop and a reckless school across country until she dropped on to the road close to Darby's house.
He was out, limping among the horses, his dark face lighting as the girl rode in.
Gheena explained fully. Darby had always heard her troubles. She came into the warm old library and sat there muttering her forebodings.