“Yes,” said Lady Nora; “you were only five minutes late and your excuse is, at least, ingenious.  You could not have come unadorned.”

“Unadorned!” exclaimed the earl; “it was a question of coming unfastened.”

Pietro began to refill the cardinal’s glass, but his master stopped him.  Pietro bent and whispered.  The cardinal laughed.  “Pietro tells me,” he said, “that this is better wine than that which I get at home and that I should make the most of it.  The only difference I remark in wines is that some are red and some are white.”

“That minds me of one night when Father Flynn dropped in to dine,” said Miss O’Kelly—­“’twas he had the wooden leg, you remember, Nora, dear—­and he and Phelim sat so late that I wint in with fresh candles.  ‘I call that good whiskey,’ says the father as I came in. ’Good whiskey?’ exclaimed Phelim; ’did ever you see any whiskey that was bad.’  ‘Now that you mintion it,’ says his riverince, ’I never did; but I’ve seen some that was scarce.’  ‘Another bottle, Aunt Molly,’ says Phelim, ‘his riverince has a hollow leg.’  When I came back with the bottle they were talking to a little, wild gossoon from the hills.  He was barefooted, bareheaded, and only one suspinder was between him and the police.  ‘Is your mother bad?’ asked his riverince.  ’Dochtor says she’ll die afore mornin’,’ says the gossoon.  ’Will you lind me a horse, Phelim?’ asked his riverince.  ‘You ride a horse, with that leg!’ says Phelim.  ‘No, I’ll drive you, in the cart;’ and he went off to the stables.  In five minutes he came back with the dog-cart and the gray mare.  His riverince got up, with the aid of a chair, the little gossoon climbed up behind, and the gravel flew as the gray mare started.  They wint a matter of ten rods and then I saw the lamps again.  They had turned, and they stopped before the porch—­the gray mare on her haunches.  ‘Phelim,’ I says, ’what ails you, you’ve a light hand whin you’re sober.’  His riverince leaned over and whispered—­’The oil cruet, Miss Molly, and don’t let the gossoon see it,’ I wint in, came out with the cruet in a paper, and handed it to him.  ‘All right, Phelim,’ he says, and the gray mare started.  At six in the mornin’ I heard the gravel crunch, and I wint to the door.  There stood the gray mare, her head down, and her tail bobbin’.  ‘You’ve over-driven her, Phelim,’ says I.  ‘Perhaps,’ says he, ‘but I knew you were sittin’ up for me.  The curse of Ireland,’ says he, ‘is that her women sit up for her men.’  ’How is the poor woman?’ I says.  ‘She’s dead,’ says Phelim; ’Father Flynn is waiting for the neighbors to come.’  ‘And the little gossoon?’ says I. Phelim leaned down from the dog-cart; ‘Aunt Molly,’ says he, ’we can’t afford to keep what we have already, can we?’ ‘No,’ says I.  ‘Thin,’ says Phelim, ’we can just as well afford to keep one more; so I told him to come to us, after the funeral.’”

“I don’t quite follow that reasoning,” said the earl.