‘Delightful! I shall be glad to have a friend with me. In the intervals of military preparation we can have a gay time--not too gay, of course, Miss Goold. I shall keep Mr. Conneally out of serious mischief. When we have a little spare cash we may as well enjoy ourselves. We shan’t want to carry money about with us in the Transvaal. We mean to live at the expense of the English out there.’ Augusta Goold smiled almost maternally at Hyacinth. ‘My dear boy,’ she said, ‘what seems plenty of money to you won’t go very far in Paris. What is it? Let me see, you said two hundred pounds, and you want to buy your outfit out of that. Keep a little by you in case of accident.’ ‘Well,’ said the Captain, ‘that’s settled. And if we are really to start to-morrow, we ought to get home to-night. Mr. Conneally may be ready to start at a moment’s notice, but he must at least pack up his tooth-brush. May we see you safe back to town, Miss O’Dwyer? Remember, we shall expect a valedictory ode in the next number of the _Croppy_. Write us something that will go to a tune, something with a swing in it, and we’ll sing it beside the camp fires on the veldt. Miss Goold’--he held out his hand as he spoke--‘I’m a plain fellow’--he did not look in the least as if he thought so--‘I’ve led too rough a life to be any good at making pretty speeches, but I’m glad I’ve seen you and talked to you. If I’m knocked on the head out there I shall go under satisfied, for I’ve met a woman fit to be a queen--a woman who is a queen, the queen of the heart of Ireland.’ It is likely that Augusta Goold, though she was certainly not a fool, was a little excited by the homage, for she refused to say good-bye, declaring that she would see the boat off next morning. It was a promise which would cost her something to keep, for the mail steamer leaves at 8 a.m., and Miss Goold was a lady who appreciated the warmth of her bed in the mornings, especially during the early days of March, when the wind is likely to be in the east. CHAPTER XII Captain Quinn made himself very agreeable to Mary O’Dwyer during the short journey back to Dublin. At Westland Row he saw her into a cab, which he paid for. His last words were a reminder that he would expect to have her war-song, music and all, sent after him to Paris. Then he turned to Hyacinth. ‘That’s all right. We’ve done with her. It was better to pay the cab for her, else she might have scrupled about taking one, and we should have been obliged to go home with her in a beastly tram. Come along. I’m staying at the Gresham. It’s always as well to go to a decent place if you have any money. You come with me, and we’ll have a drink and a talk.’