“Not yet,” replied he; “but, after last night, Desmond can have no choice. Surely you must agree with me in that?”
“No,” said I, very slowly. “I am not sure that I agree with you.”
“Which means you do not!” cried he, with anger in his tones. “But why?”
It was not easy to put what I thought into so many words, and I did not answer at once.
“Why? why?” again asked Fitzmaurice.
“I can hardly tell you,” replied I; “but you heard, as well as I did, the report of his dealings with the President, and”—here I spoke out quite bluntly—”I have no firm faith in Desmond.”
“Perchance, he hesitated,” said Fitzmaurice, “perhaps he did at the beginning; but all that will now be at an end. He must declare himself openly. His hand has been forced by Sir John, and he cannot stand out against us and his people.”
“What are your plans now?” I asked, rather wearily, for I was tired of this incessant reference to Desmond.
“To wait at Tralee till I hear from him,” said he. “You will wait also?”
“No,” said I, “I return to Smerwick to-day.”