But Andy said nothing of what he had seen. He was a gentleman.
Even as Andy said, the pack returned to kennels, Darby riding among them through the hot sunshine; the old house looked lonely to him no longer. Already his crippled limb seemed to grow stronger, and as they rode he planned.
The Castle Freyne motor was at the door, Dearest George remarking peevishly that he had come over to look for Miss Delorme, who really must not disappear before breakfast-time, the result being leathery bacon, as he no longer used the copper heaters.
Gheena came swinging round from the stables with Stafford, Crabbit at their heels. The two matched well, even if Basil Stafford still looked pale, and knew now that the old hurt reopened by the wound would not heal for six months.
"Gheena," said George Freyne, "talks now of being married next month. It seems to me heartless, Darby. And your Aunt, Mona, wishes you to return to Kent. She is suffering from nerves. She has written to me."
Miss Delorme said briefly that she was not going.
"But if Dearest George advises it——" said Mrs. Freyne vaguely.
Gheena ran up to them. "Dearest is dreadfully upset," she said. "It's Lancelot and Miss O'Toole. She is going to marry him. It isn't nonsense, Dearest, she will."
From Dearest George's next remark he seemed to think all matrimony nonsense, especially between unsuitable young people.
"And Miss Delorme's aunt insists," he repeated; "she is guardian or something joint. She insists, she says so."