Having been haughtily told he was a pessimist, Basil Stafford read his wire again to himself.
"Mrs. Weston offered to do post-boy, too," said the Professor. "I met her, but I wouldn't allow it. She was at your house borrowing note-paper. Hers was out. She has gone to see Mrs. Freyne now."
Basil Stafford said "Oh!" very thoughtfully.
The party at Castle Freyne was gathered in an airless room when they got back, heated by a large fire of wood and turf, the blend of tea and conversation strong in the close atmosphere. The women were knitting and the men discussing the mistakes of the war, humbly listened to by their spouses. The Bradys' right-minded cousin—her name was O'Toole—stabbed wool which grated harshly on the needles, and occasionally commented shrewdly.
Gheena let a breath of soft fresh air into the room as she threw up a window, and the visitors shivered politely.
"Going to nurse, or motor drive, or release a man?" asked the right-minded cousin almost as she shook hands. "I'm on five committees in Dublin."
Gheena said meekly that she was waiting to act as interpreter when the South Coast was invaded, and Mr. O'Hara carefully explained that nearly all Teutons spoke English fluently, so that that idea was absurd.
Gheena snubbed, closed half the window, and sighed patiently.
"Are you joining?" said Miss O'Toole to Stafford.
Mr. Stafford eyed her rancorously, merely remarking that his time was occupied by business.