wonderment. Fanny Fitz made a mental dive into her bankbook, and arrived
at the varied conclusions that she was £30 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?"