I knew the way Babberly had been talking. I knew the way Lady Moyne had goaded him and others to talk, but poor Moyne hardly ever talked at all. All he ever wanted was to be left alone.
“Well, I can’t exactly go back on them now when they’re doing what we said they ought to do. I’ve got to see the thing through. After all it’s my fault that those poor fellows are in this horrible mess.”
He glanced back as he spoke. He was thinking of the angry crowd we had left behind us.
“So you’ll take care of the ladies,” he said. “Run them down to Castle Affey and make yourself as comfortable as you can. They won’t be expecting you, but they’ll manage some sort of dinner.”
“I’m not going,” I said. “I’m staying on in Belfast.”
“But why should you? You’ve no responsibility. You’ve never taken any part in our—It’s very good of you to think of staying. It really is. And I appreciate the spirit in which—But—”
“For goodness’ sake, Moyne,” I said, “don’t give me credit for any kind of heroism. That noblesse oblige attitude of yours doesn’t suit me a bit. It isn’t in my line.”
“But hang it all, Kilmore, you can’t be staying here for the fun of it.”
“I’ve often told you,” I said, “that I’m writing a history of the Irish Rebellions. I naturally want to see one, and there isn’t likely to be another in my time. That’s my only reason for staying in Belfast.”
We found Lady Moyne waiting for us when we reached the hotel. She was wearing a long cloak, and had a motor-veil tied over her head. She was evidently prepared to start at once.