“Oh, Mr. Airey,” she cried, “I have come to entreat of you to do your best to dissuade mamma from her wild notion—the wildest she has ever had. You may have some restraining influence upon her. She is trying to get up an Irish jig in the hall after dinner—she has set her heart on it.”
“I can promise you that if Lady Innisfail asks me to be one of the performers I shall decline,” said Edmund.
“Oh, she has set her heart on bringing native dancers for the purpose,” cried the girl.
“That sounds serious,” said Edmund. “Native dances are usually very terrible visitations. I saw one at Samoa.”
“I knew it—yes, I suspected as much,” murmured the girl, shaking her head. “Oh, we must put a stop to it. You will help me, Mr. Airey?”
“I am always on the side of law and order,” said Mr. Airey. “A mother is a great responsibility, Miss Innisfail.”
Miss Innisfail smiled sadly, shook her head again, and fled to find another supporter against the latest frivolity of her mother.
When Edmund turned about from watching her, he saw that his friend Harold Wynne had gone off with some of the yachtsmen—for every day a yachting party as well as deep-sea-fishing, and salmon-fishing parties—shooting parties and even archæological parties were in the habit of setting-out from Castle Innisfail.
Was it possible that Harold intended spending the day aboard the cutter, Edmund asked himself.
Harold’s mood of the previous evening had been quite intelligible to him—he had confessed to Miss Craven that he understood and even sympathized with him. He was the man who was putting off the plunge as long as possible, he felt.