Patsy, who had given the pony in charge of the stable lad, given his face a “lick of a towel,” and assumed duty as distributer of mashed potatoes, was passing along pursuing his functions at the opposite side of the table to Mr Fanshawe.
As James gave this information, Mr Fanshawe saw the ghost of a grin pass across Patsy’s face and vanish.
“I’ll go up and see him after luncheon,” said the General. “I expect that tumble into the ditch has shaken him up?”
“Did Mr Boxall follow the hounds?” asked Lady Molyneux.
“No; it was at the meet,” replied the General. “A ruffian hit him on the side of the head with a bag of soot. Egad, I thought his neck was broken!”
“Oh,” said Lady Molyneux. She said no more, and went on with her luncheon. It was her first visit to Ireland. Beyond milliners’ bills, pug dogs, three square meals a day, Debrett, and the Almanach de Gotha, the world had little to interest Lady Molyneux. She thought, perhaps, that to be half stunned with a bag of soot was a proper accompaniment to an Irish meet of the hounds; at all events, she did not express a contrary opinion by word or manner.
After luncheon the General, having enquired which was Mr Boxall’s room, went up and knocked at the door.
“Come in,” answered a voice. “Who’s there?”
General Grampound opened the door and entered.
Mr Boxall was in bed. He was lying with his face to the wall, the window blind was down; the place had the appearance of a sick-room.