what Larry’s politics or his matrimonial intentions were?  Confound Cloherty, anyway!  He was a sufficiently common object of the Cluhir scene—­and infernally common at that.  Hardly a day that you didn’t meet him loafing about the town.  Larry hadn’t the smallest wish to talk to Cloherty.  When, some brief time before the Day of Judgment, they reached the covert, it was drawn blank, and Bill Kirby took quite a month to get the hounds out.  Hunting rabbits, of course.  Larry never knew them so out of hand.  And then another rotten jog along the road to the next draw.  Why on earth couldn’t Bill get into the country and let them have a school at least, and get away from these damned motors?  He was hoarse from shouting replies to Tishy’s airy nothings, all winged with his name, and all, he felt, addressed as much to the public as to him.  She looked stunning, of course, and he was glad he had given her those furs, but three miles trying to keep a suspicious fool of a horse up to the elbow of a car roaring along at half speed, was—!

It matters not what Larry thought it was, the point is that Tishy thought it wasn’t, and, suddenly realising his views, turned in one of those instantaneous furies of hers, to the cavalier at the other elbow of the car, who happened to be the red-headed Cloherty.

Larry, neglected, fell back, and presently found himself beside an old friend, Father David Hogan, the priest of Riverstown.  It was nearly ten years since the great days of Father David’s black mare; she had passed into legend, and Father David, something heavier than he was but no less keen, now followed hounds in more leisurely fashion on the back of the black mare’s son, a portly and careful bay cob.

“I’m very pleased to see you out, Mr. Coppinger,” Father David began, the kindly little blue eyes twinkling deep in his red face, confirming the assurance imparted by his extensive smile, that his friendship was still unshaken, “You’ve been missing some nice hunts.”

“I’ve been too hard worked to get out, Father,” apologised Larry.

“Ah, otherwise engaged, maybe?” said Father David, with a facetious stress on the word engaged.  “I was greatly put out over the election,” he continued.  “Tell me now, why didn’t the Unionists support you?  I noticed that our worthy M.F.H. came to record his vote, but your cousin, the late M.F.H., was, as they say, conspicuous by his absence.”

“He’s quite an invalid now,” said Larry shortly.

“Indeed?  Indeed?  And is that the case?  I’m grieved to hear it!” Father David pressed the stout cob nearer to Joker, and murmured very confidentially.  “I’ve known you since your boyhood I may say, Mr. Coppinger, and you will not consider me impertinent speaking to you.  But could you tell me is it a fact what I’m ’hearing about the good Major—­you, no doubt, have prior information—­”

“I think that’s very unlikely,” said Larry, sulkily, flushing as he spoke.