d understand. It's the cursed pride of a cursed country. The less we
have to be proud of, the more damned proud we are. We have a sense of
humour for everything in creation except ourselves." Again he laughed
harshly; then again his mood changed. "James," he said seriously, "put
that cheque in your pocket, and if you value my friendship, never
mention it again. We may be a bad lot; we may be all Clo says of
us--fools, rakes, spendthrifts; but no Asshlin ever shirked his debts
of honour." The words were bombastic, the sentiment false, but the
natural dignity and distinction of the man--dissipated failure though
he might be--were unmistakable, as he stood with high head and erect
figure.

By the ironic injustice of such circumstances Milbanke--honest,
prosaic, incapable of a dishonourable action--felt suddenly humiliated.
With shame-faced haste he muttered an apology, and thrust the cheque
into his pocket.

At the moment that he did so, Clodagh re-entered the room.

"It's all right, father!" she exclaimed. "The bay will be round in a
second. And Larry has come. Are you ready, Mr. Milbanke?"

He responded with instant alacrity. It was the second time that morning
that she had unconsciously come to his relief.

"Oh! quite," he said--"quite ready. Shall we start?"

"This minute, if you like. Good-bye, father! I hope 'twill be a good
run." She crossed the room quickly, then paused at the door. "Remember,
the race will be nothing at all worth seeing," she added, glancing back
over her shoulder at the guest.

CHAPTER VI

Without ceremony or apology Clodagh led Milbanke to the stables by the
shortest route, which entailed the traversing of several long and windy
passages and the crossing of the great, draughty kitchen where Hannah,
the housekeeper, cook, and general mainstay of the establishment, held
undisputed sway.

As they entered her domain, she was standing by an open window engaged
in the cleaning of a saucepan--an operation to which she brought an
astonishing amount of noisy energy. At sight of the stranger, she
dropped the knife she was holding, and made a furtive attempt to
straighten her ample and somewhat dirty apron.

"Ah, wisha, Miss Clodagh," she began in a voice that trembled between
chagrin and an inherent sense of hospitality, "isn't that a quare thing
for you to be doin' now? To be bringin' the gintleman down here--an' me
in the middle of me pots? Not but what you're welcome, sir--though 't