But Milbanke scarcely heard the laugh. There was a flush of delight on his thin cheeks as he peered through his magnifying-glass into one of the carved stones. He waited a moment before replying; then he answered with bent head.
"Certainly, Miss Clodagh," he said abstractedly—"certainly! But make it two hours, I beg of you, instead of one."
And with another amused laugh Clodagh took advantage of her dismissal.
Milbanke's absorption was so unfeigned that when Clodagh came running back nearly three hours later, full of remorse for her long desertion, he greeted her with something amounting to regret.
Twice she had to remind him that the afternoon was all but spent and the long walk to Orristown still to be reckoned with, before he could desist from the fascinating task of completing the notes he had made. At last, with a little sigh of amiable regret, he shut up his book, returned the magnifying-glass to his satchel, and slowly followed her out of the churchyard.
They had covered half a mile of the smooth strand, across which the first long shadows of evening had begun to fall, before the glamour of the past centuries had faded from his consideration, permitting the more material present to obtrude itself.
Then at last, with a little start of compunction, he realised how silent and uninteresting a companion he must seem to the girl walking so staidly beside him; and with something of guilt in the movement, he withdrew his eyes from the long, wet line of sand where the incoming tide was stealthily encroaching.
"Miss Clodagh," he said abruptly, "what are you thinking of?"
With frank spontaneity, she turned and met his gaze.
"I was wondering," she said candidly, "when you'd forget the Round Tower and remember about father."