t smutty little ballad singer,' or 'that whiskeyfied
dog-fancier, Toole.' There was no actual quarrel, however; they met
freely--told one another the news--their mutual disagreeabilities were
administered guardedly--and, on the whole, they hated one another in a
neighbourly way.

Fat, short, radiant, General Chattesworth--in full, artillery
uniform--was there, smiling, and making little speeches to the ladies,
and bowing stiffly from his hips upward--his great cue playing all the
time up and down his back, and sometimes so near the ground when he
stood erect and threw back his head, that Toole, seeing Juno eyeing the
appendage rather viciously, thought it prudent to cut her speculations
short with a smart kick.

His sister Rebecca--tall, erect, with grand lace, in a splendid stiff
brocade, and with a fine fan--was certainly five-and-fifty, but still
wonderfully fresh, and sometimes had quite a pretty little pink
colour--perfectly genuine--in her cheeks; command sat in her eye and
energy on her lip--but though it was imperious and restless, there was
something provokingly likeable and even pleasant in her face. Her niece,
Gertrude, the general's daughter, was also tall, graceful--and, I am
told, perfectly handsome.

'Be the powers, she's mighty handsome!' observed 'Lieutenant Fireworker'
O'Flaherty, who, being a little stupid, did not remember that such a
remark was not likely to pleasure the charming Magnolia Macnamara, to
whom he had transferred the adoration of a passionate, but somewhat
battered heart.

'They must not see with my eyes that think so,' said Mag, with a
disdainful toss of her head.

'They say she's not twenty, but I'll wager a pipe of claret she's
something to the back of it,' said O'Flaherty, mending his hand.

'Why, bless your innocence, she'll never see five-and-twenty, and a bit
to spare,' sneered Miss Mag, who might more truly have told that tale of
herself. 'Who's that pretty young man my Lord Castlemallard is
introducing to her and old Chattesworth?' The commendation was a shot at
poor O'Flaherty.

'Hey--so, my Lord knows him!' says Toole, very much interested. 'Why
that's Mr. Mervyn, that's stopping at the Phoenix. A. Mervyn,--I saw
it on his dressing case. See how she smiles.'

'Ay, she simpers like a firmity kettle,' said scornful Miss Mag.

'They're very grand to-day, the Chattesworths, with them two livery
footmen behind them,' threw in O'Flaherty, accommodating his remarks to
th