Short as his absence was, it gave Walpole time enough to recur to his late judgment on his tour, and once more call it a ‘mistake, a complete mistake.’ The Ireland of wits, dramatists, and romance-writers was a conventional thing, and bore no resemblance whatsoever to the rain-soaked, dreary-looking, depressed reality. ‘These Irish, they are odd without being droll, just as they are poor without being picturesque; but of all the delusions we nourish about them, there is not one so thoroughly absurd as to call them dangerous.’ He had just arrived at this mature opinion, when his friend re-entered and handed him the note. ‘Here is a piece of luck. _Per Bacco_!’ cried Walpole, as he ran over the lines. ‘This beats all I could have hoped for. Listen to this--“Dear Mr. Walpole,--I cannot tell you the delight I feel in the prospect of seeing a dear friend, or a friend from dear Italy, which is it? “’ ‘Who writes this?’ ‘A certain Mademoiselle Kostalergi, whom I knew at Rome; one of the prettiest, cleverest, and nicest girls I ever met in my life.’ ‘Not the daughter of that precious Count Kostalergi you have told me such stories of?’ ‘The same, but most unlike him in every way. She is here, apparently with an uncle, who is now from home, and she and her cousin invite us to luncheon to-day.’ ‘What a lark!’ said the other dryly. ‘We’ll go, of course?’ ‘In weather like this?’ ‘Why not? Shall we be better off staying here? I now begin to remember how the name of this place was so familiar to me. She was always asking me if I knew or heard of her mother’s brother, the Lord Kilgobbin, and, to tell truth, I fancied some one had been hoaxing her with the name, and never believed that there was even a place with such a designation.’ ‘Kilgobbin does not sound like a lordly title. How about Mademoiselle--what is the name?’ ‘Kostalergi; they call themselves princes.’ ‘With all my heart. I was only going to say, as you’ve got a sort of knack of entanglement--is there, or has there been, anything of that sort here?’ ‘Flirtation--a little of what is called “spooning”--but no more. But why do you ask?’ ‘First of all, you are an engaged man.’ ‘All true, and I mean to keep my engagement. I can’t marry, however, till I get a mission, or something at home as good as a mission. Lady Maude knows that; her friends know it, but none of us imagine that we are to be miserable in the meantime.’ ‘I’m not talking of misery. I’d only say, don’t get yourself into any mess. These foreign girls are very wide-awake.’ ‘Don’t believe that, Harry; one of our home-bred damsels would give them a distance and beat them in the race for a husband. It’s only in England girls are trained to angle for marriage, take my word for it.’