“Oh,” said Lady Molyneux. She said no more, and went on with her luncheon. It was her first visit to Ireland. Beyond milliners’ bills, pug dogs, three square meals a day, _Debrett_, and the _Almanach de Gotha_, the world had little to interest Lady Molyneux. She thought, perhaps, that to be half stunned with a bag of soot was a proper accompaniment to an Irish meet of the hounds; at all events, she did not express a contrary opinion by word or manner. After luncheon the General, having enquired which was Mr Boxall’s room, went up and knocked at the door. “Come in,” answered a voice. “Who’s there?” General Grampound opened the door and entered. Mr Boxall was in bed. He was lying with his face to the wall, the window blind was down; the place had the appearance of a sick-room. “Hullo!” cried the General. “What’s all this?” “I think I have the influenza,” said Mr Boxall, without turning to answer. “Influenza? Why, you were all right a few hours ago. Sure it wasn’t the blow that chap gave you?” “No, no,” said the Member of Parliament, “that had nothing to do with it—only a scratch. It’s in my bones; I felt it coming on this morning. I oughtn’t to have gone to that confounded meet.” “Have a doctor?” “No thanks—I say——” “Yes?” “I want a telegram sent.” “Yes?” “I suppose one can send a telegram in this confounded country?” “Yes; there’s an office in the village.” “You’ll find some forms in my writing-case on the table; write it for me, like a good fellow.” “Anything I can do for you, Boxall, will give me the sincerest pleasure,” said General Grampound, opening the writing-case. “They are all deucedly sorry to hear of your being laid up—enquiring after you at lunch and all that, specially a certain young lady—hum——” “Indeed!” said Mr Boxall, without emotion; then with a sudden snarl: “I wish I could telegraph myself out of this infernal place! Ireland for the Irish—egad, it’s the only place for them—den of wild beasts!” “I’ve always said myself the only thing for Ireland was the old Duke’s—the great Duke’s suggestion,” said General Grampound, spreading out the telegraph form. “Sink it for half an hour in the sea and let the beggars drown like rats or swim to America. Here’s the telegraph form—what’s your message?” “Write,” said Mr Boxall, after a moment’s consideration—“write, ‘Hawksley, Oxford St., London.’” The General did as he was directed. “Got that done?” asked Mr Boxall. “Yes.” “Now write—let me see—wait a moment—yes—write, “‘Send another, same colour and size, immediately—urgent.—Richard Boxall, Glen Druid House, Mid Meath, Ireland.’” “‘Ireland’?” said the General. “That all?” “Yes—quite enough. It’s about a coat—will you see that a special messenger takes it to the office at once?” “I will,” said the General, rising to go. “Can I get you anything—some gruel or beef-tea?” “No thanks—see here!” “Yes?” “Don’t let that fool of a red-headed boy take the message; he’s sure to make a muddle of it.”