“I’ll go as near to it as I can.” “Do, avic; an’ begorr, av ye don’t take the consait out av some av thim on th’ other side, I’m a boneen, no less. Mind the dalin’ thrick, and keep your thumb on the ace av hearts—the card that always is thrumps.” On the following morning, as I was preparing for my drive over to Father O’Dowd’s, and endeavoring to pull my ideas together on the burning topic of the hour, my mind being a prey to love, jealousy, politics, and despair-a crushing _mélange_—an outside car whirled up the avenue, and gracefully lounging upon the back cushion, attired in the fulness of fashionable travelling costume, a cigar in his mouth, and dainty lavender-colored kid gloves upon his hands, sat, or lay, Mr. Wynwood Melton. I recognized him even before he came within clear eye-shot, and, despite my bitter feeling against him, could not help paying him an involuntary tribute of admiration. I knew what brought him to Kilkenley. It was not to seek my vote, it was not to visit Mr. Hawthorne—it was to see Mabel; and now, with a dull, dead ache at my heart, I should play host to my rival in love and my opponent in the hustings. I hastened downstairs and met him in the hall. I resolved that no one should come between me and my _devoir_ as a gentleman. Melton was a pale, finely-featured, almost effeminate-looking young fellow, whose _Henri Quatre_ beard and thin, dark moustache set off a round, carefully-groomed head—one of those heads that reveal the execution done by double brushes and hand-mirrors, as a woman’s bespeaks the delicate manipulations of the _fille de chambre_. He was quite pictorial in his get-up, from a Vandyke collar to black velveteen coat, knee-breeches, purple stockings, and shoes with great strings almost resembling those coquettish rosettes so much in vogue with ladies whom nature has blessed with Lilliputian feet. He might, but for his soft plaid woollen ulster, have represented one of the old portraits of my ancestors that hung in the dining-room; and as he stood thus I could not avoid contrasting my own homely appearance with his, and bitterly flinging the heavy odds into the scale against myself. “Mr. Melton?” I said. “Yaas,” with a drawl and a bow. “You are welcome to Kilkenley,” extending my hand. “Mr. Ormonde! Ah! glad to meet you. What a drive I’ve had, over such roads and such a vehicle! Caun’t say I like your cars. _Per Bacco!_ one’s spine gets divided into sections during the drive. You’ve got old Hawthorne here. I suppose he has bored you to death. I expected to find this place like the enchanted wood—everybody asleep, even the princess.” “Whom you would like to awaken as in the fairy tale,” I added bitterly. “Don’t care for kissing. How does Miss Hawthorne like this precious country?” “I assume she will like it all the better for your arrival.” I was going to resent the impertinence, but withheld the burning retort that rose to my lips. A self-sufficient smile appeared as he almost yawned: