I had had mine, and, clothed in a white suit, nearly as much too big for me as the old miser’s funeral gloves, was reposing in a very easy chair, when Dennis and his friend began to dress for the dance.  The lieutenant was in his bedroom, which opened to the left out of the sitting-room where I sat, and Dennis was tubbing in another room similarly placed on the right.  Every door and window was open to catch what air was stirring, and they shouted to each other, over my head, so to speak, while the lieutenant’s body-servant ran backwards and forwards from one to the other.  He was, like so many soldiers, an Irishman, and having been with his master when he visited the O’Moores, he treated Dennis with the utmost respect, and me with civility for Dennis’ sake.  He was waiting on his master when the lieutenant shouted,

“Dennis! what’s your length, you lanky fellow?”

“Six foot two by the last notch on the front door.  I stood in my socks, and the squire measured it with his tape.”

“Well, there’s half-an-inch between us if he’s right; but that tape’s been measuring the O’Moores from the days of St. Patrick, and I’ve a notion it has shrunk with age.  I think my clothes will do for you.”

“Thank you, thank you, Willie!  You’re very good.”

In a few minutes O’Brien came out with his arms full of clothes, and pursued by his master’s voice.

“O’Brien’s bringing you the things; can he go in?  Be quick and finish off that fresh-water business, old fellow, and get into them.  I promised not to be late.”

I tried to read a newspaper, but the cross-fire of talk forbade anything like attention.

“Was ye wanting me, sorr?”

“No, no.  Never mind me, O’Brien.  Attend to Mr. O’Moore.  Can he manage with those things?”

“He can, sorr.  He looks illigant,” replied O’Brien from the right-hand chamber.  We all laughed, and Dennis began to sing: 

“Oh, once we were illigant people,
Though we now live in cabins of mud;
And the land that ye see from the steeple,
Belonged to us all from the flood. 
My father was then king of Connaught ——­”

“And mislaid his crown, I’ll be bound!” shouted the lieutenant.  “Look here, Dennis, you’ll get no good partners if we’re late, and if you don’t get a dance with your cousin’s daughter, you’ll miss a treat, I can tell you.  But dancing out here isn’t trifled with as it is in temperate climates, and cards are made up early.”

By and by he shouted again,

“O’Brien!”

“Coming, your honour.”

“I don’t want you.  But is Mr. O’Moore ready?”

“He is, sorr, barring the waistcoat. Take a fresh tie, Master Dennis.  The master ’ll not be pleased to take ye out with one like that.  Sure it’s haste that’s the ruin of the white ties all along. Did ye find the young gentleman a pair of shoes, sorr?”

“Won’t those I threw in fit you?” asked our host.