"There is quite a party here to-night," said Dillon, looking along the cliff. "Here is Mrs. Weston now."
Gheena, staring unhappily, suddenly remembered that she had promised to go to Mrs. Weston's and fetch her up to tea and: "It was all Crabbit's fault," said Gheena placidly. "I don't know why people are staying on here this year like this. Mrs. Weston hasn't even the excuse of drainage works."
Mrs. Weston, who was slim and upright and nice-looking, came tripping in, heels palpably too high, along the cliffs. She was quite ostensibly but neatly painted, and made no pretence as to the expense of her chestnut wig. She was a capable young woman, who now talked of taking a house at Duncahir because her people in Australia had joined the army and she was quite alone.
The district inspector, a stout and self-opinionated youth, had shown marked symptoms of admiration, these coupled with discreet desire to know if she was one of those widows whose husbands left provisos in their wills.
Mr. Keefe joined the group at the moment. He was also asked to tea, and Darby nodded.
Violet Weston held out an eager hand for the telegram and clamoured for news. Personally, she was one of the optimists who regarded the retreat as mere strategy to lure the Germans on, and who considered that the war would end in Berlin with the Kaiser on exhibition in a neat brass cage.
Stafford read the message aloud, keeping it himself.
"You see, you wouldn't understand it," said Gheena, eyeing her knitting. "He has them sent to him in some code or other."
Stafford tore up the wire into very small pieces and coloured faintly.
Mrs. Weston, walking on, was as fine as an optimist as Gheena had been as a strategist.