Thus instructed, the poacher strides off round to the rear of the house; Mrs Murdock entering by the front door to give directions about dressing the dinner. Not that she intends to take any hand in cooking it—not she. That would be infra dig for the ancien belle of Mabille. Poor as is the establishment of Glyngog, it can boast of a plain cook, with a slavey to assist.
The other two remain outside, the guest joining his host in a glass of brandy and water. More than one; for Father Rogier, though French, can drink like a born Hibernian. Nothing of the Good Templar in him.
After they have been for nigh an hour hobnobbing, conversing, Murdock still fighting shy of the subject, which is nevertheless uppermost in the minds of both, the priest once more approaches it, saying:—
“Parbleu! They appear to be enjoying themselves over yonder!” He is looking at the lawn where the bright forms are flitting to and fro. “And most of all, I should say, Monsieur White Cap—foretasting the sweets of which he’ll ere long enter into full enjoyment; when he becomes master of Llangorren.”
“That—never!” exclaims Murdock, this time adding an oath. “Never while I live. When I’m dead—”
“Diner!” interrupts a female voice from the house, that of its mistress seen standing on the doorstep.
“Madame summons us,” says the priest, “we must in, M’sieu. While picking the bones of the pheasant, you can complete your unfinished speech. Allons!”