The trail of a sachet-scented petticoat could be detected on this length of Brussels carpet, the acrid vulgarity of eau de Cologne hung like a curtain before an open door, a vision of white silk gleamed for a moment as it fled from room to room:  men in a strange garb—­black velvet and steel buttons—­hurried away, tripping over their swords, furtively ashamed of their stockinged calves.  On the first landing, about the winter-garden, a crowd of German waiters, housemaids, billiard-players with cigars in their teeth and cues in their hands, had collected; underneath, in the hall, the barmaids, and old ladies, wrapped up in rugs and shawls to save them from the draughts, were criticizing the dresses.  Olive’s name was on every lip, and to see her all were breathless with expectation; her matrimonial prospects were discussed, and Lord Kilcarney was openly spoken of.  ’Ah! here she is! there she is!’ was whispered.  The head-porter, wild with excitement, shouted for Mrs. Barton’s carriage; three under-porters distended huge umbrellas; the door was opened, an immense wind tore through the hall, sending the old ladies flying back to their sitting-room, and the Bartons, holding their hair and their trains, rushed across the wet pavement and took refuge in the brougham.

‘Did one ever see such weather?’ said Mrs. Barton.  ’I hope your hair isn’t ruffled, Olive?’

‘No, mamma, I think it is all right.’

Reassured, Mrs. Barton continued:  ’I don’t think there ever was a country so hateful as Ireland.  What with rain and Land League.  I wonder why we live here!  Did you notice the time, Alice, as we left the hotel?’

‘Yes, mamma; it was twenty-five minutes to ten.’

’Oh! we are very late; we shan’t be there before ten.  The thing to do is to get there about half-past nine; the Drawing-Room doesn’t begin before eleven; but if you can get into the first lot you can stand at the entrance of Patrick’s Hall.  I see, Alice, your friend Harding is going to the Drawing-Room.  Now, if you do what I tell you, you won’t miss him; for it does look so bad to see a girl alone, just as if she was unable to get a man.’

While Mrs. Barton continued to advise her girls, the carriage rolled rapidly along Stephen’s Green.  It had now turned into Grafton Street; and on the steep, rain-flooded asphalte, they narrowly escaped an accident.  The coachman, however, steadied his horses, and soon the long colonnades of the Bank of Ireland were seen on the left.  From this point they were no longer alone, and except when a crash of thunder drowned every other sound, the rattling of wheels was heard behind and in front of them.  Carriages came from every side:  the night was alive with flashing lamps; a glimpse of white fur or silk, the red breast of a uniform, the gold of an epaulette, were seen, and thinking of the block that would take place on the quays, the coachmen whipped up their horses; but soon the ordering voices of the mantled and mounted policemen were heard, and the carriages came to a full stop.