“You did not write,” said Willoughby.

“Because it was a toss-up of a run to Ireland or here, and I came here not to go there; and, by the way, fetched a jug with me to offer up to the gods of ill-luck; and they accepted the propitiation.”

“Wasn’t it packed in a box?”

“No, it was wrapped in paper, to show its elegant form.  I caught sight of it in the shop yesterday and carried it off this morning, and presented it to Miss Middleton at noon, without any form at all.”

Willoughby knew his friend Horace’s mood when the Irish tongue in him threatened to wag.

“You see what may happen,” he said to Clara.

“As far as I am in fault I regret it,” she answered.

“Flitch says the accident occurred through his driving up the bank to save you from the wheels.”

“Flitch may go and whisper that down the neck of his empty whisky-flask,” said Horace De Craye.  “And then let him cork it.”

“The consequence is that we have a porcelain vase broken.  You should not walk on the road alone, Clara.  You ought to have a companion, always.  It is the rule here.”

“I had left Miss Dale at the cottage.”

“You ought to have had the dogs.”

“Would they have been any protection to the vase?”

Horace De Craye crowed cordially.

“I’m afraid not, Miss Middleton.  One must go to the witches for protection to vases; and they’re all in the air now, having their own way with us, which accounts for the confusion in politics and society, and the rise in the price of broomsticks, to prove it true, as they tell us, that every nook and corner wants a mighty sweeping.  Miss Dale looks beaming,” said De Craye, wishing to divert Willoughby from his anger with sense as well as nonsense.

“You have not been visiting Ireland recently?” said Sir Willoughby.

“No, nor making acquaintance with an actor in an Irish part in a drama cast in the Green Island.  ’Tis Flitch, my dear Willoughby, has been and stirred the native in me, and we’ll present him to you for the like good office when we hear after a number of years that you’ve not wrinkled your forehead once at your liege lady.  Take the poor old dog back home, will you?  He’s crazed to be at the Hall.  I say, Willoughby, it would be a good bit of work to take him back.  Think of it; you’ll do the popular thing, I’m sure.  I’ve a superstition that Flitch ought to drive you from the church-door.  If I were in luck, I’d have him drive me.”

“The man’s a drunkard, Horace.”

“He fuddles his poor nose.  ’Tis merely unction to the exile.  Sober struggles below.  He drinks to rock his heart, because he has one.  Now let me intercede for poor Flitch.”

“Not a word of him.  He threw up his place.”

“To try his fortune in the world, as the best of us do, though livery runs after us to tell us there’s no being an independent gentleman, and comes a cold day we haul on the metal-button coat again, with a good ha! of satisfaction.  You’ll do the popular thing.  Miss Middleton joins in the pleading.”