they were scanning with approval, tempered by anxiety, the muddy legs of a lean and lengthy grey filly, who was fearfully returning her gaze from between the strands of a touzled forelock.  The owner of the filly, a small man, with a face like a serious elderly monkey, stood at her head in a silence that was the outcome partly of stupidity, partly of caution, and partly of lack of English speech.  The conduct of the matter was in the hands of a friend, a tall young man with a black beard, nimble of tongue and gesture, profuse in courtesies.

“Well, indeed, yes, your ladyship,” he was saying glibly, “the breed of horses is greatly improving in these parts, and them hackney horses—­”

“Oh,” interrupted Miss Fitzroy hastily, “I won’t have her if she’s a hackney.”

The eyes of the owner sought those of the friend in a gaze that clearly indicated the question.

“What’ll ye say to her now?”

The position of the vendors was becoming a little complicated.  They had come over through the mountains, from the borders of Mayo, to sell the filly to the hotel-keeper for posting, and were primed to the lips with the tale of her hackney lineage.  The hotel-keeper had unconditionally refused to trade, and here, when a heaven-sent alternative was delivered into their hands, they found themselves hampered by the coils of a cast-off lie.  No shade, however, of hesitancy appeared on the open countenance of the friend.  He approached Miss Fitzroy with a mincing step, a deprecating wave of the hand, and a deeply respectful ogle.  He was going to adopt the desperate resource of telling the truth, but to tell the truth profitably was a part that required rather more playing than any other.

“Well, your honour’s ladyship,” he began, with a glance at the hotel ostler, who was standing near cleaning a bit in industrious and sarcastic silence, “it is a fact, no doubt, that I mentioned here this morning that this young mare was of the Government hackney stock.  But, according as I understand from this poor man that owns her, he bought her in a small fair over the Tuam side, and the man that sold her could take his oath she was by the Grey Dawn—­sure you’d know it out of her colour.”

“Why didn’t you say so before?” asked Miss Fitzroy, bending her straight brows in righteous severity.

“Well, that’s true indeed, your ladyship; but, after all—­I declare a man couldn’t hardly live without he’d tell a lie sometimes!”

Fanny Fitz stooped, rather hurriedly, and entered upon a renewed examination of the filly’s legs.  Even Rupert Gunning, after his brief and unsympathetic survey, had said she had good legs; in fact, he had only been able to crab her for the length of her back, and he, as Fanny Fitz reflected with a heat that took no heed of metaphor, was the greatest crabber that ever croaked.

“What are you asking for her?” she demanded with a sudden access of decision.