The Professor saw the group and waved a telegram.
"Your man was very busy, Stafford; he had forgotten some supplies, so I offered to bring this." He held it out, beaming softly.
Basil opened it, reading with slow ease. Then he looked round at the distant wireless station and grunted sharply.
"Of course," he said to himself. "It does make it..."
Gheena had snatched the wire, reading out a meaningless jumble of letters and short words.
"Oh, the war news. Everything much as usual. Great hopes and little else," he answered coolly. "When they strew the papers with roses they seem to forget the thorns or the stems, Miss Freyne."
Having been haughtily told he was a pessimist, Basil Stafford read his wire again to himself.
"Mrs. Weston offered to do post-boy, too," said the Professor. "I met her, but I wouldn't allow it. She was at your house borrowing note-paper. Hers was out. She has gone to see Mrs. Freyne now."
Basil Stafford said "Oh!" very thoughtfully.
The party at Castle Freyne was gathered in an airless room when they got back, heated by a large fire of wood and turf, the blend of tea and conversation strong in the close atmosphere. The women were knitting and the men discussing the mistakes of the war, humbly listened to by their spouses. The Bradys' right-minded cousin--her name was O'Toole--stabbed wool which grated harshly on the needles, and occasionally commented shrewdly.
Gheena let a breath of soft fresh air into the room as she threw up a window, and the visitors shivered politely.
"Going to nurse, or motor drive, or release a man?" asked the right-minded cousin almost as she shook hands. "I'm on five committees in Dublin."
Gheena said meekly that she was waiting to act as interpreter when the South Coast was invaded, and Mr. O'Hara carefully explained that nearly all Teutons spoke English fluently, so that that idea was absurd.
Gheena snubbed, closed half the window, and sighed patiently.
"Are you joining?" said Miss O'Toole to Stafford.
Mr. Stafford eyed her rancorously, merely remarking that his time was occupied by business.
A fumble at Miss O'Toole's pocket revealed the probable presence of a box of white feathers.
"Dearest George thinks the Germans are making all kinds of mistakes," said Matilda Freyne placidly. "Losing such lots of men, you know, and making themselves so unpopular and digging so much. He thinks they will all get rheumatism and have to go to Harrogate."