The Schoolmaster was sure of that. For a moment he saw the girl's averted face, the curve of her white neck, the little tendrils of hair clustering moist and jetty about her ears, her scarlet fluttering lips, as Conal might have seen them.
"She's a beautiful woman—Deirdre."
An uneasily-moving voice jerked suddenly behind him with sly, chuckling laughter.
It was Thad McNab who spoke.
He grudged Mrs. Hegarty her gathering of young people and the patronage of Pat Glynn, but then she was able to run the place better than he, and although it was supposed to be her property, none knew better than the two of them that it was his as much as the Black Bull.
McNab came and stood in Mrs. Mary Ann's doorway sometimes when there was dancing, and the joy of several of the dancers was quenched at the mere sight of his shrivelled yellow face and pale eyes.
The Schoolmaster looked down at him. No man could afford to quarrel with McNab.
"How old will she be now?" asked McNab.
"Eighteen," replied the Schoolmaster.
"She's the prettiest girl ever seen down this part of the world," muttered old Salt Watson.