There was a pause.  The owner of the filly and his friend withdrew a step or two and conferred together in Irish at lightning speed.  The filly held up her head and regarded her surroundings with guileless wonderment.  Fanny Fitz made a mental dive into her bankbook, and arrived at the varied conclusions that she was L30 to the good, that on that sum she had to weather out the summer and autumn, besides pacifying various cormorants (thus she designated her long-suffering tradespeople), and that every one had told her that if she only kept her eyes open in Connemara she might be able to buy something cheap and make a pot of money on it.

“This poor honest man,” said the friend, returning to the charge, “says he couldn’t part her without he’d get twenty-eight pounds for her; and, thank God, it’s little your ladyship would think of giving that!”

Fanny Fitz’s face fell.

“Twenty-eight pounds!” she echoed.  “Oh, that’s ridiculous!”

The friend turned to the owner, and, with a majestic wave of the hand, signalled to him to retire.  The owner, without a change of expression, coiled up the rope halter and started slowly and implacably for the gate; the friend took off his hat with wounded dignity.  Every gesture implied that the whole transaction was buried in an irrevocable past.

Fanny Fitz’s eyes followed the party as they silently left the yard, the filly stalking dutifully with a long and springy step beside her master.  It was a moment full of bitterness, and of a quite irrational indignation against Rupert Gunning.

“I beg your pardon, miss,” said the ostler, at her elbow, “would ye be willing to give twenty pounds for the mare, and he to give back a pound luck-penny?”

“I would!” said the impulsive Fanny Fitz, after the manner of her nation.

When the fishing party returned that afternoon Miss Fitzroy met them at the hall door.

“Well, my dear,” she said airily to Mrs. Spicer, “what sort of sport have you had?  I’ve enjoyed myself immensely.  I’ve bought a horse!”

Mrs. Spicer sat, paralysed, on the seat of the outside car, disregarding her brother’s outstretched hands.

“Fanny!” she exclaimed, in tones fraught with knowledge of her friend’s resources and liabilities.

“Yes, I have!” went on Fanny Fitz, undaunted.  “Mr. Gunning saw her.  He said she was a long-backed brute.  Didn’t you, Mr. Gunning?”

Rupert Gunning lifted his small sister bodily off the car.  He was a tall sallow man, with a big nose and a small, much-bitten, fair moustache.

“Yes, I believe I did,” he said shortly.

Mrs. Spicer’s blue eyes grew round with consternation.

“Then you really have bought the thing!” she cried.  “Oh, Fanny, you idiot!  And what on earth are you going to do with it?”

“It can sleep on the foot of my bed to-night,” returned Fanny Fitz, “and I’ll ride it into Galway to-morrow!  Mr. Gunning, you can ride half-way if you like!”