As Miss Grimshaw sat by the fire she could hear the faint boom of the sea. To know desolation and the blessing of a visit, you must live in the extreme west of Ireland, which, I take it, is the extreme outside edge of European civilisation; and after three days of rain, three days of reading the day-before-yesterday's Freeman's Journal, and "Mrs. Brown's 'Oliday Outings," Miss Grimshaw was in the frame of mind to receive a visitor, more especially when that visitor took the form of Bobby Dashwood.
Bobby and his irresponsibilities had found a place in her heart—not the place that women keep for lovers, but the place they keep for cats, stray dogs, and other people's children; a place, all the same, that opens into the real place, an ante-room where, if a man can obtain a footing, he has a chance of being shown into the boudoir. Unfortunately for Bobby, French had a place there, too; so had Norah, the cat, and Effie—quite an extraordinary collection of people and animals, but only two men—French and Mr. Dashwood.
"Here they are, miss," cried Norah, popping her head in at the door, "the car's comin' up the dhrive!"
Miss Grimshaw rose from the fire, and came out into the hall.
She saw the car through the open door, and the lamps blazing, and next moment she was shaking hands with Bobby Dashwood.
"Where's Mr. French?" asked the girl.
"He jumped down at the stable entrance," said Mr. Dashwood, wriggling out of his greatcoat, "and went to see the horses. He asked me to come in and tell you."
She led the way into the dining-room.
"You've got the same bedroom that you had before," said she—"the one with the glimpse of the sea. Mrs. Driscoll has put a fire there, and they've been airing sheets and things all day, so you need not be afraid of catching cold. Hasn't the weather been awful?"