And yet with a band that is second to none; with food wonderful and divine; with the choicest fruit of the grape, and--to top all--with the girl, Dickie did not seem happy. As he says, it was not to be wondered at. He had landed at Folkestone meaning to propose; he had carried out his intention over the fish--and after that the dinner had lost its savour. She had refused him--definitely and finally; and Dick found himself wishing for France again--France and forgetfulness. Only he knew he'd never forget. "The dinner is to monsieur's taste?" The head-waiter paused attentively by the table. "Very good," growled Dick, looking savagely at an ice on his plate. "Oh, Moyra," he muttered, as the man passed on, "it's meself is finished entoirely. And I was feeling that happy on the boat; as I saw the white cliffs coming nearer and nearer, I said to meself, 'Dick, me boy, in just four hours you'll be with the dearest, sweetest girl that God ever sent from the heavens to brighten the lives of dull dogs like yourself.'" "You're not dull, Dick. You're not to say those things--you're a dear." The girl's eyes seemed a bit misty as she bent over her plate. "And now!" He looked at her pleadingly. "'Tis the light has gone out of my life. Ah! me dear, is there no hope for Dickie O'Rourke? Me estate is mostly bog, and the ould place has fallen down, saving only the stable--but there's the breath of the seas that comes over the heather in the morning, and there's the violet of your dear eyes in the hills. It's not worrying you that I'd be--but is there no hope at all, at all?" The girl turned towards him, smiling a trifle sadly. There was woman's pity in the lovely eyes: her lips were trembling a little. "Dear old Dick," she whispered, and her hand rested lightly on his for a moment. "Dear old Dick, I'm sorry. If I'd only known sooner----" She broke off abruptly and fell to gazing at the floor. "Then there is someone else!" The man spoke almost fiercely. Slowly she nodded her head, but she did not speak. "Who is it?" "I don't know that you've got any right to ask me that, Dick," she answered, a little proudly. "What's the talk of right between you and me? Do you suppose I'll let any cursed social conventions stand between me and the woman I love?" She could see his hand trembling, though outwardly he seemed quite calm. And then his voice dropped to a tender, pleading note--and again the soft, rich brogue of the Irishman crept in--that wonderful tone that brings with it the music of the fairies from the hazy blue hills of Connemara. "Acushla mine," he whispered, "would I be hurting a hair of your swate head, or bringing a tear to them violet pools ye calls your eyes? 'Tis meself that is in the wrong entoirely--but, mavourneen, I just worship you. And the thought of the other fellow is driving me crazy. Will ye not be telling me his name?" "Dick, I can't," she whispered, piteously. "You wouldn't understand."