I call it 'foot'? I'll
make it well, anyhow!" he ended, and, in what he felt to be the manner
of a kind uncle, he kissed the injured wrist.

"_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
discover