George Freyne replied heatedly in defence of his country, answering his brother-in-law that Ireland was orderly and well regulated. "And if you mean the sauce, it was your man," added Mr. Freyne, in what he believed to be an undertone.
"Oh--er--my man; he's not used to butlering. The most annoying habit of the Irish is their inability to see the gravity of situations."
Darby rubbed his forehead quite slowly with his right hand, as with his left he set fire to a mince-pie.
"All the same in a hundred years. My poor Eva would say that when--when--well, when she ought not to have--when the month's expenditure was five pounds beyond her allowance, or something valuable died, or the impossible maids she brought from home smashed some of my Worcester. Dear me! She would train to distant meets when we could not possibly afford it. And ... 'I'll be dead such a long time, Tony,' she said to me when I remonstrated."
But a gleam of light and softness shone in the hard old eyes.
"She might box horses anywhere she wished to now," he said, sighing. "And she is not there to do it."
"Then you see, sir, she was right," said Darby gently. "She had her fun, and it did not matter as you pulled out and made money."
General Brownlow glared at Darby fiercely; then the gleam of softness reappeared, and he grunted thoughtfully, to remark after a pause that he'd never thought of it, but, after all, she was. And that he'd write to Tom her boy to say it didn't matter.... Then he lapsed into silence again, with something very like tears in his eyes.
When a telegram came for Stafford he read it with such a disturbed expression that General Brownlow asked softly if it was bad news.
"No. War news and no news." But Stafford's frown was not that of a man who had received a wire about nothing.
"You are not joining anything?" the General asked.
Stafford tore the telegram up, then walked to the fire and threw the pieces in carefully.
General Brownlow's man was a success in his own circle. Old Naylour reported upon him as a dacent boy, with a twisht of fun in him; this privately to Gheena.
It was a still, muggy night, and as the air in the library grew heavy with smoke, and the possibilities of making tricks at Bridge were carefully considered, Crabbit flung himself with a wild "Bow-wow" against the window panes. Naylour at the moment was putting down a large silver tray laden with syphons and decanters and a jug of boiling water. Gheena promptly let her dog out, letting in a sough of cold raw air, which struck the heavy heated atmosphere almost as with a blow.