“So it’s hay we run to!” he said, disregarding her “O Lord! Mr. Fallow’s tithes, I suppose.”
“Well, why waste good hay? He’s waiting for you.”
“Well, he’s got plenty of time by all accounts.”
“I mean, she’s waiting,” she cried, in distress.
“Is she there already? Look at that bird cracking its snail on the gravestone.”
“It’s an early bird—you’ll be late.”
“Don’t worry. Tony Flip never missed his cue yet. Funny, isn’t it, how it all comes right at night—especially with Polly there! Perhaps she’ll come, if we give her a little time.”
“But have you invited her? Does she know?”
“If she don’t, it’s not for want of telegrams to every possible address.”
“But she may be in Cork, you said. You can’t keep the bride waiting.”