"If Marley's on Whitcombe beach, we'll row over to Boveyhayne," said Ninian. "You'd like to get on to the sea, wouldn't you, Quinny?"
Henry nodded his head.
"No," said Gilbert, "we won't. We'll sit here for a while, and I'll read my play to Quinny. I carry it about with me, Quinny, so that I can read it to Ninian whenever his spirits are low!"
"I never saw such a chap!" Ninian mumbled.
"This great, hairy, beefy fellow," Gilbert went on, seizing hold of Ninian's arm with his disengaged hand, "does not love literature!..."
Ninian broke free from Gilbert's grip. "Marley is on the beach," he said, and ran ahead to engage the boat.
"Well, Quinny!" said Gilbert, when Ninian had gone.
"Well, Gilbert!" Henry replied.
"How's Ireland? Still making an ass of itself?"
Henry made no answer to Gilbert's question because he knew that an answer was not expected. Had any one else spoken in that fashion to him, any other Englishman, he would probably have angered instantly, but Gilbert was different from all other people in Henry's eyes, and was privileged to say whatever he pleased.