By the ironic injustice of such circumstances Milbanke—honest, prosaic, incapable of a dishonourable action—felt suddenly humiliated. With shame-faced haste he muttered an apology, and thrust the cheque into his pocket.
At the moment that he did so, Clodagh re-entered the room.
"It's all right, father!" she exclaimed. "The bay will be round in a second. And Larry has come. Are you ready, Mr. Milbanke?"
He responded with instant alacrity. It was the second time that morning that she had unconsciously come to his relief.
"Oh! quite," he said—"quite ready. Shall we start?"
"This minute, if you like. Good-bye, father! I hope 'twill be a good run." She crossed the room quickly, then paused at the door. "Remember, the race will be nothing at all worth seeing," she added, glancing back over her shoulder at the guest.
CHAPTER VI
Without ceremony or apology Clodagh led Milbanke to the stables by the shortest route, which entailed the traversing of several long and windy passages and the crossing of the great, draughty kitchen where Hannah, the housekeeper, cook, and general mainstay of the establishment, held undisputed sway.
As they entered her domain, she was standing by an open window engaged in the cleaning of a saucepan—an operation to which she brought an astonishing amount of noisy energy. At sight of the stranger, she dropped the knife she was holding, and made a furtive attempt to straighten her ample and somewhat dirty apron.
"Ah, wisha, Miss Clodagh," she began in a voice that trembled between chagrin and an inherent sense of hospitality, "isn't that a quare thing for you to be doin' now? To be bringin' the gintleman down here—an' me in the middle of me pots? Not but what you're welcome, sir—though 'tis no fit place for you," she added, with a glance that summed the intruder up from head to heel.