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