His face was turned towards her, humble and mysteriously moved, a strong light in his eyes.
So absorbed were they that they did not hear, or if they heard, paid no attention to the grind of wheels on the gravel before the shanty, the yelping and snarling of dogs that announced the arrival of a vehicle at Steve's, and such late arrivals were not usual.
"I've had my way with women. They've told you tales of me, I know," Conal pleaded. "But there's never a woman I've cared for but you, Deirdre. And you—" he broke off impatiently, "there's no telling you how I care for you. I haven't got words. Besides, it chokes me to speak of it; raises a storm in me that there's no holding. By and by when this is all over, we'll go away—you and the Schoolmaster and me. Oh, I'll be a good husband. You'll give me y'r word, won't you, Deirdre?"
There were voices in the bar beyond, but they did not heed them. Conal was thinking only of her and his pleading.
"Conal dear," Deirdre said. "If you wouldn't talk like this any more!"
Her eyes fell from his. He snatched her hand from the flower under her chin where it had fallen.
"Is it him you love?" he asked fiercely, jerking his head in the direction of the back door by which Davey had gone out. "Is it? Tell me. I'll let no man come between you and me, Deirdre. I'll kill him if he tries to."
The door from the tap-room, with the sunlight splashing on the benches and bottles behind it, opened, and Steve and the new arrival came into the kitchen.
"And who is it y'll be killing now, Conal?" asked McNab genially.
He glanced from Conal to Deirdre.