"I hope you found it interesting." "I did. I like the little dabs you do with your brush on the front of your pinafore up at the right-hand side." She laughed. "I make myself very painty." He was studying her painting earnestly. "It’s just a study of an old white horse a milkman—a friend of Sheila Pat’s—has. I spent the morning in his stable. He’s invalided home on account of a lame leg. I was just putting a few finishing touches from memory." "He’s splendid." "He was a glorious model—but difficult. There’s any amount of drawing in him. I’m going again to-morrow, only you see, if Aunt Kezia were to find out, I feel sure she’d forbid me, and—well, I suppose there would be ructions then, because she’d forbid me to go, and I’m going to finish him down to the last hair on his tail. I know she’ll catch me. I walk out, canvas and easel, paint-box and all, as bold as Larry Hoolahan himself. Only Aunt Kezia’s worse than any shape the fairies ever took!" "Who’s the gentleman?" "Oh, he was a piper who was afraid of nothing." She picked up her brush again, and worked a little on the head. "He wasn’t afraid even of the fairies, and actually won the good-will of the chief of them on Knocksheogonna." "Would you mind saying it again?" he suggested. She smiled. "It means ’the Hill of the Fairy Calf.’ I’m spoiling this," she put down her palette and brush. "I’ll show you my rendering of some of the shapes the fairy took to scare the poor herdsmen away. They resented cattle being herded on their ground, you see." She started rummaging in a big old untidy portfolio. She handed him a sheet of paper covered with rough sketches in water colour. "By Jove, that Hooligan must have had a good nerve to stand those." "You’re not to call him that. I like him. That’s where she turned herself into a man with a lame leg and a bull’s head, with flames playing all round it. There she’s a big horse, with eagle’s wings and a dragon’s tail, with fire coming out of her mouth." "This beats them all, I think!" "Oh, yes, she’s a huge ape with a turkey’s tail and duck’s feet, there." "I don’t need explanations, thanks," he observed with dignified politeness. "No? What is that, then?" She pointed to a sketch. He studied it earnestly. "Er—it’s a conglomeration—boots—" he paused, reddened, "and a collar." She laughed. "It’s meant for a salmon with a cravat round its neck, and a pair of top-boots, only I can’t draw a salmon to save my life!" He looked injured. "I knew what all the rest were!" She took the sheet from him. He moved towards the door. "Will you give O’Brien my message?" "You’re not going! Please put up with me till the others come in. I’ll just go and wash my hands. Sit down." She came back presently, gave a piece of coal a poke with her foot, sat down, looked into the red heart of the fire, then across at him. "Do you really like a motor better than a horse?" she said. He stared at her, astonished.