“That’s the sixteenth this morning,” said Miss Lestrange, with a little gasp. “Seventeen—eighteen—nineteen—twenty,” counted Mr Fanshawe, “and one on the eyebrow. Now, let’s see where we are.” A hundred yards to the right there was a cross-road and a sign-post, which read, taking one set of arms: [Illustration: Carlow 126 Miles] Taking the other [Illustration: ½ way to Dublin] “Half-way from where?” asked Miss Lestrange. “I don’t know,” replied Mr Fanshawe. The wind blew amidst the thistles at the foot of the sign-post in a cynical manner, and the cawing of crows came from the fields. “I shouldn’t mind,” she said, “only for the row we’re sure to get into; they’ll be waiting luncheon. It’s bad enough our running on and leaving him in the ditch, but that’s _nothing_ to keeping him waiting for luncheon.” “Why the deuce need they wait?” cried Mr Fanshawe. “You don’t know what he’s like when he’s kept waiting for his food,” said Miss Lestrange. “Don’t I!” “Listen,” she said. The noise of wheels broke the awful silence around them, and round the bend of the road, coming from the direction indicated as “Carlow 126 miles,” appeared the “tub.” “That’s our salvation,” said Violet. “That’s Patsy,” said Mr Fanshawe. “We’ve been chasing you,” cried Doris, as the “tub” drew up. “We saw you away up there sitting under the hedge. We were on the other road, then, when Patsy saw you get up and come down the hill, he said we’d be sure to find you here.” “How many miles are we from the house, Patsy?” asked Mr Fanshawe. “Four, sir.” “If Miss Lestrange gets into the cart, can you get her there before lunch-time?” “Aisy, sir. Punch’ll do it in twenty minits.” Miss Lestrange got into the cart. “How are you goin’, sir?” asked Patsy. “I’ll run beside you—on you go.” At the park gates they stopped. “You go on,” said Mr Fanshawe, “I’ll turn up in half an hour, or so—better not say you’ve seen me at all, for we’ll get into a row for not having gone back to help my uncle out of the ditch.” “I won’t say a word,” said Lord Gawdor. “Nor I,” said Doris. Patsy said nothing, he only grinned. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXIII THE WILD DUCKS General Grampound in make, shape, manner, voice and character was exactly like the General one meets on the stage in a farce. One meets numerous people in the course of one’s journey through the world who seem to have strayed into life from a farce, and, as a rule, they are very unpleasant people to deal with—play their parts indifferently well, and sometimes stray out of the world leaving a tragedy behind them. General Grampound had been winding himself up. After his cropper in the ditch he had given up the chase and returned home. He had been winding himself up, but, as a matter of fact, he did not want much winding. In this respect—and some others—the old gentleman very much resembled Selina.