"Could I bother you again?" he asked. "How do I get to the railway station?" "I 'm going that way, if you care to come." There was a nice chivalry about him; she felt that as they walked together. Was that American? she wondered. "May I ask you something? Are most Americans like you?" "Yes," he said, "of course." She was puzzled. She had an impression that all Americans were called "Silas" and twanged, "I guess." Also, they chewed gum. There was something wrong. "You are n't called Silas, are you?" "No; Richard. Did you think all Americans were called Silas?" "Something like that," she admitted. And they looked at each other and laughed. She had a joyous feeling that the maids at home would disapprove of this strongly. And that the old gardeners would tremble with rage. But the dogs approved. "What sort of time are you having in Ireland?" "Not so good," he admitted. "I 've been here a week, and the only friends I 've made are cab-drivers. Also, I have a bowing acquaintance with a head waiter." "Cab-drivers are good fun," she ruminated. They were at the station now. "Look here," she said suddenly as she was leaving: "if you are having a rotten time like that in Dublin, and know nobody, it must be lonely! I wonder--" She looked at him fearlessly. "Look here: if you 'd care to, come out and see me at Mount Kyteler--my name 's Kyteler. There are dogs and horses and an old house you might like to see." "May I? Thanks. My name's O'Conor. I 'll come, then, Miss Kyteler." "Lady Margery Kyteler." "Do I call you all that? Lady Margery Kyteler?" "No. Just Lady Margery." "Lady Margery! That's nice." When he came, he came with a great armful of flowers, which Margery received with a smile and courtesy, and turned over to Rose Ann. He seemed scrubbed, so glistening was he. How like an old friend he was, with his firm handshake and laughing eyes. "Now," he said, "I 'd like the worst over." "What is the worst?" "Oh, meeting people. Your relatives. The Lady This and the Lady That, and the countess, and the duke. Above all, the duke." "There are none," she said. "I live here by myself." "All by yourself, in this big house?" "Yes." "Might I ask, are you married?" "No-o-o," she pondered. "Um, no." He looked at her incredulously. He had never in his life seen any one so beautiful, he thought. The small face, the soft and sweet and smiling dark eyes, the hair like a perfumed dark cap on a head whose sweet shape he could imagine. And the supple figure in the frock that was close in the bosom and belled like a dancer's from the waist down. "Well, that beats--" he murmured. "Beats hell, doesn't it?" She finished for him.