’But have you seen his pamphlets on the amalgamation of the poor houses?’ said Alice, astonished at the slight consideration afforded to the rural genius.

’I have heard of them.  It appears he is going in for politics; but his politics will be on a par with his saw-mill, and his farmyard in concrete.  Mr. Adair is a well-known person.  Every county in England, Ireland, and Scotland, possesses and is proud of its Mr. Adair.’

Alice wondered for some moments in silence; and when suddenly her thoughts detached themselves, she said:  ’We didn’t see you in the ladies’ drawing-room.’

’I was very busy all the morning.  I had two articles to write for one of my papers and some books to review.’

’How nice it must be to have a duty to perform every day; to have always an occupation to which you can turn with pleasure.’

’I don’t know that I look upon my ink-bottle as an eternal haven of bliss.  Still, I would sooner contribute articles to daily and weekly papers than sit in the Kildare Street Club, drinking glasses of sherry.  Having nothing to do must be a terrible occupation, and one difficult to fulfil with dignity and honour.  But,’ he added, as if a sudden thought had struck him, ’you must have a great deal of time on your hands; why don’t you write a novel?’

‘Everybody can’t write novels.’

‘Oh yes, they can.’

’Is that the reason why you advise me to write one?

‘Not exactly.  Did you ever try to write a story?’

’No, not since I was at school.  I used to write stories there, and read them to the girls, and . . .’

‘And what?’

’Oh, nothing; it seems so absurd of me to talk to you about such things; you will only laugh at me just as you did at Mr. Adair.’

‘No, I assure you, I am very loyal to my friends.’

‘Friends!’

’I should have thought that friendship was a question of sympathy, and not one of time:  but I will withdraw the word.’

‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean that—­I am sure I am very glad . . .’

’Very well, then, we will be friends; and now tell me what you were going to say.’

‘I have forgotten—­what was I saying?’

‘You were telling me about something you had written at school.’

’Oh, yes, I remember.  I did a little play for the girls to act just before we left.’

‘What was it about—­what was it called?’

’It was not original—­it was an adaptation of Tennyson’s ballad of King Cophetua.  You know Miss Gould—­she played the King; and Miss Scully, she played the beggar-maid.  But, of course, the whole thing was very childish.’

At this moment a figure in knee-breeches and flesh-coloured stockings was seen waving a wand at the far end of the room.  He was the usher clearing the way for the viceregal procession.