Milbanke made a murmur of forgiveness; and a moment later Nance appeared upon the scene, breathless and full of curiosity. As Larry entered upon a voluble account of the finish in reply to her eager questions, Clodagh wheeled the mare round and trotted quickly across the fields in the direction of the house.
For a moment or two Milbanke stood irresolute; then a sudden impulse to follow the mare and her rider seized him, and ignoring Nance and Larry—still absorbed in heated explanation—he took his way slowly across the green and springy turf.
His crossing of the field was measured and methodical, and he had barely come within sight of the arched gateway of the yard when Clodagh reappeared—this time on foot. The tail of her habit was tucked under one arm, the struggling form of an Irish terrier was held firmly under the other.
She came straight forward in his direction; and, reaching him, would have passed on without speaking. But he halted in front of her.
"Miss Clodagh," he said, "you are hurt and disappointed."
Clodagh averted her eyes.
"I'm not," she said shortly.
"But I see that you are."
"No, I'm not."
"Miss Clodagh, you are. Can't I do something?"