Was her father inside? If so, it would be a case of fibbing to get that sober gentleman, Mr. Berrington, outside.
But old Peter was not within. He was discoursing to the ostler in the yard. A broad-shouldered figure in a blue, many-caped coat, adorned by brass buttons, with legs stretched well before him, and hands thrust deeply in his pockets, sat alone.
Mollie advanced, bashful, but brimming with self-importance.
"Mr. Berrington, sir," she cried breathlessly.
Michael turned, half rising as he saw her standing there, for, if he had neither kisses nor smiles for pretty barmaids, he treated every woman he met with a deference which they found vastly pleasing.
"Why, yes, Mollie," quoth he. "The coach is never ready to start yet?"
"No, indeed!" she answered at a gabble. "Sir Stephen has but now ordered an omelette, which that slut Jenny is sure to burn, but I had to leave her, having news of moment for your ear."
Her air of self-importance was amusing.
Michael's grey eyes twinkled.
"News of moment! Now you must not complain to me, child, if Mr. Conyers kisses you too often."