“Quite well now, thank you!” said Christian, mockingly, withdrawing her hands.  “If I had only thought of it, I could have got Nancy to lick it!  It might have done just as well!” Her colour had risen a little.  “Let’s come out; it’s rather stuffy in here.”

At a little distance from the kennel precincts were waiting two small, smooth, white dogs, daughters of the adored companions of Christian’s childhood, themselves scarcely less adored than were their parents.  Seated, as was their practice, in a well-chosen position, that combined seclusion with a commanding view of the detested hounds, they had not ceased (as was also their practice) from loud and desolate barking, an exercise that in the case of Dooley, the younger and more highly-strung of the couple, was accustomed to develop into a sustained contralto wail.  As Christian and Larry left the kennel yard, this moment had been reached.  Dooley’s nose was in the air, her mouth was as round as the neck of a bottle, her white throat looked as long as a swan’s throat, and the bark was softening into sobs.  Christian flung herself down, and gathered her and her sister, the second Rinka, into her arms.

“Let’s sit down here,” she said, sending her hat spinning down the grassy slope; “it’s too lovely to go in, and I want a cigarette.”

“Haven’t got one,” said Larry.  “Sorry.  I gave them up in Lent, and now I’m doing as well without ’em.”

“Nerve gone already,” said Christian.  “That’s what comes of missing a season!” She laughed up at him.

“Don’t know,” said Larry, dropping down beside her on the dry, sun-hot grass; “quite likely; but it wasn’t that.  The fact was”—­he hesitated—­“I met a very decent Padre at Muerren.  We used to talk a lot about—­oh, no end of things!  When he found I was Irish he was awfully pleased.  He congratulated me on belonging to the Old Faith—­he’s Irish himself, but he’s never lived over here.  He said it was such a wonderful link with the people and the past—­such a romantic religion!  And so it is, you know.  It hadn’t struck me, somehow, till Father Nugent talked of it.  I’m sorry for you, Christian!  Don’t you feel being a Protestant is a bit—­well—­stodgy—­and respectable—­no sort of poetry?”

“I like stodge,” said Christian, serenely.

Larry paid this frivolity no attention.  He had only recently discovered that he possessed a soul, and he was as much pleased with it as he had been with his first watch, and he found much the same enjoyment in producing and examining it, that had been afforded to him by the watch.

“It was Father Nugent’s suggestion to give up smoking,” he said, unable to eliminate from his voice a touch of pride, “I knocked off whiskies and sodas, too—­but that was off my own bat.”

“‘Smite them by the merit of the Lenten Fast!’” murmured Christian.  Unlike Larry, she evaded personalities and especially those that involved a discussion of religion.  “Larry do you remember the awful rags we used to have over that hymn!  What ages it is since you were at home!  Not since I’ve had my hair up!”