They were leaning over the sea-wall in front of a little fishing hotel in Connemara, idling away the interval usually vouchsafed by the Irish car-driver between the hour at which he is ordered to be ready and that at which he appears.  It was a misty morning in early June, the time of all times for Connemara, did the tourist only know it.  The mountains towered green and grey above the palely shining sea in which they stood; the air was full of the sound of streams and the scent of wild flowers; the thin mist had in it something of the dazzle of the sunlight that was close behind it.  Little Mrs. Spicer pulled down her veil:  even after a fortnight’s fly-fishing she still retained some regard for her complexion.

“She says she can’t come,” she responded; “she has letters to write or something—­and this is our last day!”

Mrs. Spicer evidently found the fact provoking.

“On this information the favourite receded 33 to 1,” remarked Captain Spicer.  “I think you may as well chuck it, my dear.”

“I should like to beat them both!” said his wife, flinging a pebble into the rising tide that was very softly mouthing the seaweedy rocks below them.

“Well, here’s Rupert; you can begin on him.”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure!” said Rupert’s sister vindictively.  “A great teasing, squabbling baby!  Oh, how I hate fools! and they are both fools!—­Oh, there you are, Rupert,” a well-simulated blandness invading her voice; “and what’s Fanny Fitz doing?”

“She’s trying to do a Mayo man over a horse-deal,” replied Mr. Rupert Gunning.

“A horse-deal!” repeated Mrs. Spicer incredulously.  “Fanny buying a horse!  Oh, impossible!”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” said Mr. Gunning, “she’s trying pretty hard.  I gave her my opinion—­”

“I’ll take my oath you did,” observed Captain Spicer.

“—­And as she didn’t seem to want it, I came away,” continued Mr. Gunning imperturbably.  “Be calm, Maudie; it takes two days and two nights to buy a horse in these parts; you’ll be home in plenty of time to interfere, and here’s the car.  Don’t waste the morning.”

[Illustration:  “A SILENCE THAT WAS THE OUTCOME PARTLY OF STUPIDITY, PARTLY OF CAUTION, AND PARTLY OF LACK OF ENGLISH SPEECH.”]

“I never know if you’re speaking the truth or no,” complained Mrs. Spicer; nevertheless, she scrambled on to the car without delay.  She and her brother had at least one point in common—­the fanatic enthusiasm of the angler.

In the meantime, Miss Fanny Fitzroy’s negotiations were proceeding in the hotel yard.  Fanny herself was standing in a stable doorway, with her hands in the pockets of her bicycle skirt.  She had no hat on, and the mild breeze blew her hair about; it was light brown, with a brightness in it; her eyes also were light brown, with gleams in them like the shallow places in a Connemara trout stream.  At this moment