“With the will o’ Pether!” she exclaimed, “how would I have cold beef?  And as for cheese—!” She paused, and then, curiosity over-powering all other emotions.  “What ails Julia Cronelly at all that your honour’s ladyship is comin’ to the like o’ this dirty place for your dinner?”

“Oh, Julia’s run away with a soldier!” struck in Robert brilliantly.

“Small blame to her if she did itself!” said Mrs. Coolahan, gallantly accepting the jest without a change of her enormous countenance, she’s a long time waiting for the chance!  Maybe ourselves’d go if we were axed!  I have a nice bit of salt pork in the house,” she continued, “would I give your honours a rasher of it?”

Mrs. Coolahan had probably assumed that either Julia was incapably drunk, or had been dismissed without benefit of clergy; at all events she had recognised that diplomatically it was correct to change the conversation.

We adventured ourselves into the unknown recesses of the house, and sat gingerly on greasy horsehair-seated chairs, in the parlour, while the bubbling cry of the rasher and eggs arose to heaven from the frying-pan, and the reek filled the house as with a grey fog.  Potent as it was, it but faintly foreshadowed the flavour of the massive slices that presently swam in briny oil on our plates.  But we had breakfasted at eight; we tackled them with determination, and without too nice inspection of the three-pronged forks.  We drank porter, we achieved a certain sense of satiety, that on very slight provocation would have broadened into nausea or worse.  All the while the question remained in the balance as to what we were to do for our hats, and for the myriad baggage involved in the expedition.

We finally decided to write a minute inventory of what was indispensable, and to send it to Julia by the faithful hand of Mrs. Coolahan’s car-driver, one Croppy, with whom previous expeditions had placed us upon intimate terms.  It would be necessary to confide the position to Croppy, but this we felt, could be done without a moment’s uneasiness.

By the malignity that governed all things on that troublous day, neither of us had a pencil, and Mrs. Coolahan had to be appealed to.  That she had by this time properly grasped the position was apparent in the hoarse whisper in which she said, carefully closing the door after her:—­

“The Dane’s coachman is inside!”

Simultaneously Robert and I removed ourselves from the purview of the door.

“Don’t be afraid,” said our hostess reassuringly, “he’ll never see ye—­sure I have him safe back in the snug!  Is it a writing pin ye want, Miss?” she continued, moving to the door.  “Katty Ann!  Bring me in the pin out o’ the office!”

The Post Office was, it may be mentioned, a department of the Coolahan public-house, and was managed by a committee of the younger members of the Coolahan family.  These things are all, I believe, illegal, but they happen in Ireland.  The committee was at present, apparently, in full session, judging by the flood of conversation that flowed in to us through the open door.  The request for the pen caused an instant hush, followed at an interval by the slamming of drawers and other sounds of search.