ts of the people of fashion. Upon my
life, before I would so demean myself, I--" he ceased suddenly, his
eye having caught sight of some people in the crowd. "Ah," said he,
while a singularly vain and fatuous smile settled upon his
countenance. "Ah, the Countess of Westport and her charming daughter,
the Lady Mary, have arrived. I must go and speak to them." My eye had
followed his glance quickly enough you may be sure. There, true
enough, was the formidable figure of the old Countess, and at her side
was the beautiful Lady Mary.

With an absent-minded murmur of apology, Doctor Chord went mincing
toward them, his face still spread with its idiotic smile.

He cantered up to them with the grace of a hobbled cow. I expected him
to get a rebuff that would stun him into the need of a surgeon, but to
my surprise the Countess received him affably, bending her head to say
some gracious words. However, I had more eyes for Lady Mary than for
the capers of little Chord.

It was a great joy to be able to look at her. I suffered from a
delicious trembling, and frequently my vision became dim purely from
the excitement. But later I was moved by another profound emotion. I
was looking at her; I must have her look at me. I must learn if her
eye would light, if her expression would change, when she saw me. All
this sounds very boyish, but it is not necessary to leave it out for
that reason, because, as my father often said, every Irishman is a boy
until he has grandchildren. I do not know if he was perfectly right in
this matter, but it is a certain advantage in a love affair to have
the true boyish ardour which is able to enshrine a woman in one's
heart to the exclusion of everything, believing her to be perfection
and believing life without her a hell of suffering and woe. No man of
middle-aged experience can ever be in love. He may have his illusions.
He may think he is in love. A woman may gain the power to bind him
hand and foot and drag him wherever she listeth, but he is not in
love. That is his mistaken idea. He is only misinterpreting his
feelings. But, as my father said, it is very different with Irishmen,
who are able to remain in love to a very great age. If you will note,
too, climatic conditions and other unpleasant matters have practically
no effect upon them; so little, indeed, that you may find streets
named after the main Italian cities, and many little German children
speak with a slight brogue. My father often sai