Among the upper ten she was prodigiously admired; but Mrs. Doran did her utmost to damp all enthusiasm and extinguish curiosity, and was uncommonly sorry she had allowed the Foley girl to appear. She was far too conspicuous. “Oh, she was just taken in to make up the dozen,” she explained, “and is only the daughter of one of our cottagers; indeed, she lives in a humble way, and is not in the same class as the rest.” “Now, I should have said it was the other way about,” exclaimed Lady Borrisokane. “It shows one should not judge by appearances. She really looks almost ladylike--have you noticed her hands?” “No!” impatiently, “I never looked at them, though she is my egg-girl this six years. She is inclined to be a bit above her station, and I make a point of keeping her in her place. It is the really _truest_ kindness.” “She is most awfully pretty and jolly-looking,” put in a young man. “I only wish----” “_Hussh!_” interrupted the presiding lady. “Father Daly is going to sing.” And the parish priest, who was a general favourite, emerged from the curtain, and gave them “Killarney” in a fine mellow voice, which was clapped to the echo by his parishioners. After a violin solo, and another glee, and a duet on the grand piano (Irish melodies and fireworks), there was a considerable delay. The lamp in the black hole had gone out, and an embarrassing collision occurred between coming and going performers. Then Ulick Doran stepped up on the platform; on this occasion carrying a much-beribboned guitar. He fetched a chair forward, sat down, deliberately tuned up the instrument, struck one or two rich chords, and then broke into “Torear por lo fino” (“The song of the Spanish bull-fighter”). “El tipo mas flamena que hayen Espa-ña.” he sang-- “Es este cuerpecito con tanta Gra-cia. Con tanta gracia y este cuerpecito Y este cuerpecito, Salero! Con tanta gracia. Olé con, olé ola, y olé, barbian de Mas gracia no habra visto uste!” Not one word could his audience understand; they could, however, realise that a remarkably good-looking young man, playing a guitar, decorated with beautiful crimson and yellow ribbons, was singing a catching and delightful melody with extraordinary spirit and expression; so much so, they felt fired with an almost irrepressible desire to join in the inspiriting refrain-- “Olé con, olé ola, y olé barbian de Mas gracia no habra visto uste!” Indeed, for many a day the boys in the neighbourhood might be heard whistling the air, or bursting suddenly into-- “Olé con, olé ola,” for the Irish peasant is naturally musical, and has a true ear.