"Indeed that's true! We can get hunting for half of the year, but it's not every day we have a visitor in the house. You go with father, Esmeralda, and don't think of me! We will have a fine little spree on our own account, Mademoiselle and I! Maybe we'll drive into Roskillie and have a look at the shops!" Mademoiselle remembered the Rue de la Paix, and smiled to herself at the thought of the shops in the Irish village, but she said honestly enough that she would enjoy the expedition; for would not Bridgie O'Shaughnessy be her companion, and did she not appear sweeter and more attractive with every moment that passed? Nearly an hour had elapsed since breakfast began, and still she sat behind the urn, smiling brilliantly at each fresh laggard, and looking as unruffled as if she had nothing to do but attend to his demands! It was the quaintest meal Mademoiselle had ever known, and seemed as if it would never come to an end, for just as she was expecting a general rise the Major would cry, "What about a fresh brew of tea? I could drink another cup if I were pressed," and presto! it took on a new lease of life. Last of all Pixie made her appearance, to be invited to a seat on each knee, and embraced with a fervour which made Mademoiselle realise more fully than ever what the child must have suffered during those weeks of suspicion and coldness. "How's my ferret?" she inquired, with her mouth full of toast, selected from her father's plate; and Pat seized the occasion to deliver his outstanding account. "Grown out of knowledge! Eightpence halfpenny you owe me now. I had to put on another farthing a week because his appetite grew so big. I knew you would rather pay more than see him suffer. And the guinea-pig died. There's twopence extra for funeral expenses. We put him in the orchard beside the dogs, and made a headstone out of your old slate. It's a rattling good idea, because, don't you see, you can write your own inscription!" "If it was my own slate, and I am to make up the inscription, I don't see why I should pay!" reasoned Pixie, with a business sharpness which sent her father into fits of delighted laughter, though it left Pat obstinately firm. "Man's time!" he said stolidly. "That's what costs nowadays. You look at any bill, and you'll find the labour comes to ten times as much as the material. You needn't grudge the poor thing its last resting-place. He was a good guinea-pig to you." "I don't care how much I owe, for I have no money to pay with," returned Pixie, unconsciously echoing her father's financial principles. "Give Pat a shilling, please, Major, for taking care of my animals while I was away." And that gentleman promptly threw a coin across the table.