Yet the very next morning he was again at Eileen’s side, again looking that unspoken homage into her eyes.
It was the occasion of what was generally known as a Scrimmage Party at The Ghan House, to which he has been inveigled partly on false pretences.
“Are you coming to my birthday party?” Paddy had shouted to him as he was riding past in the morning, from the top of a hen-house where she was busily endeavouring to mend leakages in the roof.
He reined in his horse, and came as near as he could get.
“What in the name of fortune are you doing up there?”
“I’m fixing on a few odd slates to keep out the rain. Don’t you admire my handiwork?”
“Why don’t you let your man do it? Lord!” with amusement, “I never saw such a position.”
Paddy glanced at her somewhat generous display of ankle, and her feet trying to hang on to the roof.
“To tell you the honest truth, Jack was supposed to be going to do it, while I handed up the slates, but we quarrelled.”
“You seem to enjoy quarrelling with your friends beyond anything. I wonder you have any left.”