“To begin: Grattan can't come,--a sick child, the measles, or something or other wrong in the nursery, which he thinks of more consequence than 'all your houses;' Ponsonby won't come,--he votes you all very dull company; Hugh O'Donnell is of the same mind, and adds that he 'd rather see Tom Thumb, in Fishamble Street, than all your court tomfooleries twice over. But then we've old Bob Ffrench,--Bitter Bob; Joe Curtis--” “Not the same Curtis that refused his Grace leave to shoot over his bog at Bally vane?” “The very man, and just as likely to send another refusal if the request be repeated.” “I didn't know of this, Dan,” interposed my father. “This is really awkward.” “Perhaps it was a little untoward,” replied MacNaghten, “but there was no help for it. Joe asked himself; and when I wrote to say that the Duke was coming, he replied that he 'd certainly not fail to be here, for he did n't think there was another house in the kingdom likely to harbor them both at the same time.” “He was right there,” said Rutledge, gravely. “He generally is right,” replied MacNaghten, with a dry nod. “Stephen Blake, too, isn't unlikely to come over, particularly if he finds out that we 've little room to spare, and that he 'll put us all to inconvenience.” “Oh, we'll have room enough for every one,” cried my father. “I do hope, at least, none will go away for want of--how you say, place?” said my mother. “That's exactly the right word for it,” cried MacNaghten, slyly. “'Tis looking for places the half of them are. I've said nothing of the ladies, Rutledge; for of course your courtly habits see no party distinctions amongst the fair sex. We'll astonish your English notions, I fancy, with such a display of Irish beauty as you 've no idea of.” “That we can appreciate without the slightest disparagement on the score of politics.” “Need you tell him of Polly?” whispered my father in Dan's ear. “No; it's just as well not.” “I'd tell him, Dan; the thing is done, and cannot be undone,” continued he, in the same undertone. “As you please.” “We mean to show you such a girl, Rutledge, as probably not St. James's itself could match. When I tell you she 'll have not very far from half a million sterling, I think it's not too much to say that your English Court has n't such a prize in the wheel.” “It 's Westrop's daughter you mean?” “Not a bit of it, man. Dorothy won't have fifty thousand. I doubt greatly if she 'll have thirty; and as to look, style, and figure, she's not to compare with the girl I mean.” “The Lady Lucy Lighton? and she is very beautiful, I confess.” “Lucy Lighton! Why, what are you thinking of? Where would she get the fortune I am speaking of? But you'd never guess the name; you never saw her,--perhaps never so much as heard of her. She is a Miss Fagan.” “Polly--Polly Fagan, the Grinder's daughter?” “So, then, you have heard of her?” said Dan, not a little disconcerted by this burst of intelligence.