"All right!" he acquiesced. "Only don't be long."
Instantly he was gone, Clodagh handed her whip to Milbanke and darted into the coach-house, reappearing with a saddle over her arm and a bridle swinging from her shoulder.
"You are not going to saddle the horse yourself?" he exclaimed in consternation. "Let me call one of the men. Please let me call one of the men."
Clodagh laughed.
"There's no one to call," she said. "Burke is the only proper man-servant we keep, and he drove into Muskeere for provisions as soon as he brought the bay round for father. You don't think I'd let any of the labourers touch the horses!" As she said this she laughed again and, nodding gaily, passed into one of the stalls.
After she had disappeared Milbanke stood silent, listening with an uncomfortable embarrassment to the soft whinnying of the horse, the soft murmuring of Clodagh's voice, the straining and creaking of leather that reached his ears. At last, yielding to his instincts, he stepped forward and spoke again.
"Miss Clodagh, let me help you," he said. "I'm afraid I'm rather useless, but you might let me try."
Again Clodagh's soft, humorous laugh answered him.
"It's done now," she said; "and anyway I've known how to saddle a horse since I was twelve. Stand back a little, please!"
He drew back hastily, and she led out a small grey mare.