`But where?' asked Miss Ivors.

`Well, we usually go to France or Belgium or perhaps Germany,' said Gabriel awkwardly.

`And why do you go to France and Belgium,' said Miss Ivors, `instead of visiting your own land?'

`Well,' said Gabriel, `it's partly to keep in touch with the languages and partly for a change.'

`And haven't you your own language to keep in touch with — Irish?' asked Miss Ivors.

`Well,' said Gabriel, `if it comes to that, you know, Irish is not my language.'

Their neighbours had turned to listen to the cross-examination. Gabriel glanced right and left nervously and tried to keep his good humour under the ordeal, which was making a blush invade his forehead.

`And haven't you your own land to visit,' continued Miss Ivors, `that you know nothing of, your own people, and your own country?'

`O, to tell you the truth,' retorted Gabriel suddenly, `I'm sick of my own country, sick of it!'

`Why?' asked Miss Ivors.

Gabriel did not answer, for his retort had heated him.

`Why?' repeated Miss Ivors.

They had to go visiting together and, as he had not answered her, Miss Ivors said warmly:

`Of course, you've no answer.'

Gabriel tried to cover his agitation by taking part in the dance with great energy. He avoided her eyes, for he had seen a sour expression on her face. But when they met in the long chain he was surprised to feel his hand firmly pressed. She looked at him from under her brows for a moment quizzically until he smiled. Then, just as the chain was about to start again, she stood on tiptoe and whispered into his ear:

`West Briton!'

When the lancers were over Gabriel went away to a remote corner of the room where Freddy Malins' mother was sitting. She was a stout, feeble old woman with white hair. Her voice had a catch in it like her son's and she stuttered slightly. She had been told that Freddy had come and that he was nearly all right.