He was studying her painting earnestly.
"It's just a study of an old white horse a milkman—a friend of Sheila Pat's—has. I spent the morning in his stable. He's invalided home on account of a lame leg. I was just putting a few finishing touches from memory."
"He's splendid."
"He was a glorious model—but difficult. There's any amount of drawing in him. I'm going again to-morrow, only you see, if Aunt Kezia were to find out, I feel sure she'd forbid me, and—well, I suppose there would be ructions then, because she'd forbid me to go, and I'm going to finish him down to the last hair on his tail. I know she'll catch me. I walk out, canvas and easel, paint-box and all, as bold as Larry Hoolahan himself. Only Aunt Kezia's worse than any shape the fairies ever took!"
"Who's the gentleman?"
"Oh, he was a piper who was afraid of nothing." She picked up her brush again, and worked a little on the head. "He wasn't afraid even of the fairies, and actually won the good-will of the chief of them on Knocksheogonna."
"Would you mind saying it again?" he suggested.
She smiled.
"It means 'the Hill of the Fairy Calf.' I'm spoiling this," she put down her palette and brush. "I'll show you my rendering of some of the shapes the fairy took to scare the poor herdsmen away. They resented cattle being herded on their ground, you see."
She started rummaging in a big old untidy portfolio. She handed him a sheet of paper covered with rough sketches in water colour.