All the party of the preceding night were also there, and as I turned from their grinning faces to the land, I saw, to my shame and confusion, that we were still lying beside the pier at Howth; while the band-boxes, trunks, and imperials of new arrivals were incessantly pouring in, as travelling carriages kept driving up to the place of embarkation.  I stood perfectly astounded and bewildered—­shame for my ridiculous costume would have made me fly at any other time—­but there I remained to be laughed at patiently, while that villain O’Flaherty leading me passively forward, introduced me to his friends—­“Mrs. Bingham, Mr. Lorrequer; Mr. Lorrequer, Miss Bingham.  Don’t be prepossessed against him, ladies, for when not in love, and properly dressed, he is a marvellously well-looking young gentleman; and as—­”

What the remainder of the sentence might be, I knew not, for I rushed down into the cabin, and locking the door, never opened it till I could perceive from the stern windows that we were really off on our way to England, and recognized once more the laughing face of O’Flaherty, who, as he waved his hat to his friends from the pier, reminded them that “they were under the care and protection of his friend Lorrequer, who, he trusted, would condescend to increase his wearing apparel under the circumstances.”

CHAPTER XXII.

THE JOURNEY.

When I did at last venture upon deck, it was with a costume studiously accurate, and as much of manner as I could possibly muster, to endeavour at once to erase the unfortunate impression of my first appearance; this, however, was not destined to be a perfectly successful manoeuvre, and I was obliged after a few minutes to join the laugh, which I found could not be repressed, at my expense.  One good result certainly followed from all this.  I became almost immediately on intimate terms with Mrs. Bingham and her daughter, and much of the awkwardness in my position as their chaperon, which bon gre, mal gre I was destined to be, was at once got over.  Mrs. Bingham herself was of that “genre” of widow which comes under the “fat, fair, and forty” category, with a never-ceasing flow of high, almost boisterous, spirits—­an excellent temper, good health —­and a well-stocked purse.  Life to her was like a game of her favourite “speculation.”  When, as she believed, the “company honest,” and knew her cards trumps, she was tolerably easy for the result.  She liked Kingstown—­she liked short whist—­she liked the military—­she liked “the junior bar,” of which she knew a good number—­she had a well furnished house in Kildare-street—­and a well cushioned pew in St. Anne’s—­she was a favourite at the castle—­and Dr. Labatt “knew her constitution.”  Why, with all these advantages, she should ever have thought of leaving the “happy valley” of her native city, it was somewhat hard to guess.  Was it that thoughts of matrimony, which the continent held out more prospect for, had invaded the fair widow’s heart? was it that the altered condition to which politics had greatly reduced Dublin, had effected this change of opinion? or was it like that indescribable longing for the unknown something, which we read of in the pathetic history of the fair lady celebrated, I believe, by Petrarch, but I quote from memory: