Miss Freyne, behind a mantle of blushes, observed frigidly that Violet was always more affectionate in public than elsewhere, to which Stafford replied that he trusted so, somewhat coldly.
When Dearest George heard it he was quite upset. In war time he considered trifling with two men was almost prodigal coquetry. He gloomed before a large fire until Matilda told him that Gheena had made up her mind to go about with Basil's regiment for some years—that is, if Dearest George thought there would be any regiment to go about with—as, of course, he would know.
Mr. Freyne, glaring at the fire, then decided that he would grow potatoes at Girtnamurragh, and also that Lancelot had played his cards very badly indeed not to have worked his wounds for more.
Mrs. Freyne thought that it was the fault of the cart wheel. "If it had been a gun," she said—"but Gheena said it was not."
Mr. Freyne grunted again; then he whistled. He began to see a vista of many years of saving, with Castle Freyne at his mercy and a growing quotia of solid investments.
"After all," he said briskly, "she will be much better away travelling, Matilda, and Darby has an eye like a hawk, a nasty way of saying things too, behind a smile."
Someone said a smile of gold, startling Dearest George exceedingly. He felt sure that it was his wife until she assured him that she had been silent, so he took to whistling again and shut the open door.
"Lancelot," said Mrs. Freyne, looking out, "is driving up in Miss O'Toole's pony trap. She seems quite attached to him, don't you think, Dearest?"
Mr. Freyne's reply contained some mention of grandmothers as he marched to the door to admit Lancelot, who had forgotten his courtship, and who had found someone who understood his symptoms.
The installing of Basil Stafford as an invalid at Castle Freyne, with Gheena waiting on him and and wondering if she had ever felt alive before, was followed by a spell of dry weather, chill nights, days of bright sunshine, evenings and mornings swathed in silver fog.