he was on the back seat of the car. I did
not know it at the time, but Veritas, who is a man of intelligence,
had identified her as an American, and wishing to inform himself on all
possible points, had asked her frankly why it was that the people of
her nation gave him the impression of never being restful or quiet,
but always so excessively and abnormally quick in motion and speech and
thought.

"Casual impressions are not worth anything," she replied nonchalantly.
"As a nation, you might sometimes give us the impression of being
phlegmatic and slow-witted. Both ideas may have some basis of fact, yet
not be absolutely true. We are not all abnormally quick in America. Look
at our messenger boys, for example."

"We! Phlegmatic and slow-witted!" exclaimed Veritas. "You surprise me!
And why do you not reward these government messengers for speed, and
stimulate them in that way?"

"We do," Francesca answered; "that is the only way in which we ever get
them to arrive anywhere--by rewarding and stimulating them at both ends
of the journey, and sometimes, in extreme cases, at a halfway station."

"This is most interesting," said Veritas, as he took out his damp
notebook; "and perhaps you can tell me why your newspapers are so poorly
edited, so cheap, so sensational?"

"I confess I can't explain it," she sighed, as if sorely puzzled. "Can
it be that we have expended our strength on magazines, where you are so
lamentably weak?"

At this moment the rain began as if there had been a long drought
and the sky had just determined to make up the deficiency. It fell in
sheets, and the wind blew I know not how many Irish miles an hour.
The Frenchman put on a silk macintosh with a cape, and was berated by
everybody in the same seat because he stood up a moment and let the
water in under the lap covers. His umbrella was a dainty en-tout-cas
with a mother-of-pearl handle, that had answered well enough in heavy
mist or soft drizzle. His hat of fine straw was tied with a neat cord
to his buttonhole; but although that precaution insured its ultimate
safety, it did not prevent its soaring from his head and descending on
Mrs. Shamrock's bonnet. He conscientiously tried holding it on with one
hand, but was then reproved by both neighbours because his macintosh
dripped over them.

"How are your spirits, Frenchy?" asked the cutler jocosely.

"I am not too greatly sad," said the poor gentleman, "but I will be
glad it should be finished;