‘No, you silly, this is a Castle invitation.’

The Brennans and the girl in red looked up.

‘Ah, is it for to-night or to-morrow?’ said the latter.

‘For to-morrow.’

’Now, I wonder if there will be one for me.  Is it to dinner or to the dance?’

‘To dinner.’

‘Ah, really . . . yes, very lucky.’  Her eyes fell, and her look was expressive of her deep disappointment.  A dance—­yes, but a dinner and a dance!  Then she continued:  ’Ah, the Castle treats us all very badly.  I am glad sometimes when I hear the Land League abusing it.  We come up here, and spend all our money on dresses, and we get nothing for it except two State balls, and it is no compliment to ask us to them—­they are obliged to.  But what do you think of my little coat?  It is this that keeps me warm,’ and Miss O’Reilly held out her sealskin for the company to feel the texture.  For the last three weeks she had not failed, on all occasions, to call attention to this garment—­’Signor Parisina had said it was lovely.’  Here she sighed—­Signor Parisina had left the hotel.  ’And I have a new dress coming home—­it is all red—­a cardinal silk—­you know nothing but red suits me!’

‘Is the hall-porter distributing the invitations?’ asked Gladys Brennan.  ‘Did he give you yours?’

‘No, ours was, of course, directed to mamma; I found it in her room.’

‘Then perhaps—­’ Zoe did not finish the sentence, and both sisters rolled up their worsted-work preparatory to going upstairs.

In Dublin, during six weeks of the year, the arrival of these large official envelopes is watched with eagerness.  These envelopes are the balm of Gilead; and the Land League and the hopelessness of matchmaking are merged and lost for a moment in an exquisite thrill of triumph or despair.  An invitation to the Castle means much.  The greyheaded official who takes you down to dinner may bore you, and, at the dance, you may find yourself without a partner; but the delight of asking your friends if you may expect to meet them on such a night, of telling them afterwards of your successes, are the joys of Dublin.  And, armed with their invitation, the Bartons scored heavily over the Scullys and the Goulds, who were only asked to the dance.

‘And what will the dinner be like, mamma?’ asked Olive.

’It will be very grand.  Lord Cowper does things in very good style indeed; and our names will be given in the papers.  But I don’t think it will amuse you, dear.  All the officials have to be asked—­judges, police-officers, etc.  You will probably go down with some old fellow of sixty:  but that can’t be helped.  At the dance, after, we’ll see the Marquis.’

’I told you, mamma, didn’t I, that Barnes wrote that everybody in Galway said he was in love with me, and had proposed?’

’You did, dear; and it does no harm for the report to have got about, for if a thing gets very much spoken of, it forces a man to come to the point.  You will wear your red tulle.  I don’t know that you look better in anything else.’