"Good-morning, again," Colonel John said. And he bowed.
"With all my heart, Colonel Sullivan," the priest answered cordially. And Colonel John saw that he had guessed aright: the speaker no longer took the trouble to hide his episcopal cross and chain, or the ring on his finger. There was an increase of dignity, too, in his manner. His very cordiality seemed a condescension.
Captain Machin bowed silently, while The McMurrough and the O'Beirnes looked darkly at the Colonel. They did not understand: it was plain that they were not in the secret of the morning encounter.
"I see O'Sullivan Og is here," the Colonel said, addressing Uncle Ulick. "That will be very convenient."
"Convenient?" Uncle Ulick repeated, looking blank.
"We can give him the orders as to the Frenchman's cargo," the Colonel said calmly.
Uncle Ulick winced. "Ay, to be sure! To be sure, lad," he answered. But he rubbed his head, like a man in a difficulty.
The Bishop seemed to be going to ask a question. Before he could speak, however, Flavia came tripping down the stairs, a gay song on her lips. Half way down, the song, light and sweet as a bird's, came to a sudden end.
"I am afraid I am late!" she said. And then—as the Colonel supposed—she saw that more than the family party were assembled: that the Bishop and Captain Machin were there also, and the strangers—and, above all, that he was there. She descended the last three stairs silently, but with a heightened colour, moved proudly into the middle of the group, and curtsied before the ecclesiastic till her knee touched the floor.
He gave her his hand to kiss, with a smile and a murmured blessing. She rose with sparkling eyes.