"An' when he sighted the grey over the half door, 'He has the head of a rogue,' says he; 'lave him there;' but he come around an' said there was weddin's always, an' so he'd take him too. So Miss Mona's horse as well. And, Miss Gheena——"
For Gheena, abandoning all dignity, sat down and wept hopelessly, with Crabbit walking round, deeply upset.
"You next," said Gheena, feeling the dog's cold nose.
"You next." Phil went away back, crying himself, through the budding wood, with its sheen of blue anemones and tender green of growing moss. He clambered heavily over the sunk fence to meet Darby on the avenue—Darby, riding, whistling as he came, some touch of the spring making him happy.
"It is Miss Gheena," said Phil, answering Darby's look. "The horses soult from undther her feet, an' she cryin' the eyes out of her head. The Masther an' his wars. Isn't it enough that there is a war in France?" burst out Phil, "not to be colloging with it in Castle Freyne. Black oats was bad enough; sure we always took a grain of white, but when there's use for neither white nor black—"
"Who bought them?" Darby bent down.
"Hartigan of Guntreen. He is within yet, atin' beef."
Darby turned and rode away down the road.
When Gheena, shaken and exhausted, her grief being rapidly burnt up by anger, came through the wood, she saw a motor at the door. This carefully-planned-out visit by Lancelot was a clumsy effort of diplomacy. Dearest George had mapped it out.
With the horses still there, Gheena was to cry out that she would obey her people's wishes, and an afternoon radiant with joy was to be spent by the family.