"But the fact remains," said Darby, "that someone supplies the beggars, or they would not attempt this blockade they are so cock-sure of...." Then he muttered "The O'Tooles" in tones of depression.
The clergyman arrived primed with war news and plans. In his opinion the Allies had only just to go there and move up there, and pinch Germany in one place and nip her in another, and Poof! it was over. Just a little dash. Nothing more.
"If Napoleon O'Toole," murmured Darby—"oh, thank you, Gheena, I could get my own, really."
It was part of the hurt to have Gheena wait upon him, to see her jump lightly for hot cakes, a fresh cup of tea.
"Much better let me ... the table's miles away. Mum always entrenches over there."
Mrs. Freyne poured out nervously, asking everyone's advice as to sugar and cream, and confusing matters greatly by taking the last person's unswervingly until she asked someone else's.
Dearest George, sneezing gloomily, had no words even to offer upon the English advance. He did think the submarines would be nasty; the sea was so beastly chilly, but land tactics had ceased to interest him, and he only grunted.
They had just finished tea when Stafford drove to the door and sent in for Mr. Freyne, saying he was going to Cortra on business.
"He motors such a lot," said Mrs. Weston softly—"at night and all times; that car is a fifty sixty, and almost silent. He looked excited or worried."
Gheena did not answer, she was watching the sea.