But the little place was spotless despite the smoke, the brass candlesticks shining, the blue china on the dresser polished--a big home-baked cake appearing, delightfully indigestible, from the three-legged oven, and Maria's half a pound of butter used recklessly.
Boiled eggs and whisky were also proffered but refused.
"I couldn't get any butter from Anne to bring out," said Gheena, when they were coming away. "So I must tell Maria to get some at Guinanes'. That's the way we manage. She gives me her things and I return them. She wouldn't take money. Dearest counts the pounds of butter now when the churning is done, so Anne is going to put away cream, because she says 'It's orkard on her, an' people comin' to tay, an' the Masther axin' where the butter do be goin' to.' You must stop at Guinanes', Darby; I've told Maria to get a parcel from them."
As they bumped out of the lane, the whining purr of a high-powered car sounded outside it, and the long grey nose of Stafford's Daimler swung aside to avoid them. He had left his car evidently on the road.
"We found the Professor out rocking, and we are taking him home," said Darby.
"Oh!" said Basil Stafford quietly. He looked worried and out of humour.
"Not pretty news," Stafford answered grimly. "The submarines will do some harm in time." He sighed a little. "And you were all out on the cliffs," he added, staring at nothing.
"Miss Freyne was out upon the cliffs," said Darby, "I was not."
"Let those cliffs alone," said Stafford sharply. "I wish you would, Miss Freyne, in war times."
He laughed a little bitterly as Gheena looked at him.
It was still early, and a complete distaste for her own home made Gheena say that she would go to see Mrs. Weston.
They stopped at Guinanes' on their way back to order a parcel for their old hostess.
A stout woman at the counter was making complaint as to damp flour.
"Soggen and weighty, Mrs. Guinane, an' it near to swheep the life from Thomas Martin with the pain it gev him. 'The centher of me is on fire, Ma,' he cried out, an' it twelve at night--'an' I will surely die.'"
Mrs. Guinane, apologizing profusely, looked darkly towards the door which led to the kitchen.
"Mike, are ye there? He was there a minnit ago. I towlt him not to take the flour out of where 'twas always, to put it in that new house he has, for flour, says I, will not do unless there is a fire, says I, an' not one of us will he let in to put a fire there, but in an' out for himself always. Mikey, will ye bring back the flour ye have destroyed with ye're obstinacy, an' not be spilin' good food?"