She sat very still during service and kept her soft black eyes fixed on Mr. Flannigan. Was it possible that he was the same person who had played horses with her aunts on the previous day? He read the service with a good deal of force and realism, and preached a sermon which was so full of Irish stories that Norah and Bridget kept their handkerchiefs pressed against their mouths to keep themselves from screaming with laughter.
All went apparently well until the service came to an end, but then the curate threw off his church manners and devoted himself to Miss Norah and Miss Bridget. He was invited back to dinner by both these young ladies and eagerly accepted the invitation.
"So this is the pixie," he said, his eyes fixed on Margot.
"No, it isn't," said Margot, "but you are the newly hatched chick."
Mr. Flannigan felt his red face turning redder than usual.
"Whatever do you mean?" he replied.
Just then they got inside the grounds.
"Thank Heaven for all its mercies," said Norah. "I can let out a good screech now, and no one will be any the wiser. I said, Sam Flannigan, that you were a newly-hatched chicken, when she was taunting me about your age, man. Oh, isn't it fun? I never enjoyed myself so much in my life."
"Nor did I, for that matter," cried Bridget. "It's a pity it is Sunday, for we can't play horses."