I was sitting at breakfast with Webber, a few mornings after the mess dinner I have spoken of, when Power came in hastily. “Ha, the very man!” said he. “I say, O’Malley, here’s an invitation for you from Sir George, to dine on Friday. He desired me to say a thousand civil things about his not having made you out, regrets that he was not at home when you called yesterday, and all that. By Jove, I know nothing like the favor you stand in; and as for Miss Dashwood, faith! the fair Lucy blushed, and tore her glove in most approved style, when the old general began his laudation of you.” “Pooh, nonsense,” said I; “that silly affair in the west.” “Oh, very probably; there’s reason the less for you looking so excessively conscious. But I must tell you, in all fairness, that you have no chance; nothing short of a dragoon will go down.” “Be assured,” said I, somewhat nettled, “my pretensions do not aspire to the fair Miss Dashwood.” “_Tant mieux et tant pis, mon cher_. I wish to Heaven mine did; and, by Saint Patrick, if I only played the knight-errant half as gallantly as yourself, I would not relinquish my claims to the Secretary at War himself.” “What the devil brought the old general down to your wild regions?” inquired Webber. “To contest the county.” “A bright thought, truly. When a man was looking for a seat, why not try a place where the law is occasionally heard of?” “I’m sure I can give you no information on that head; nor have I ever heard how Sir George came to learn that such a place as Galway existed.”