“Harry, I see clearly that something has gone wrong, and perhaps I can make a guess at the mode too:  but however, you can do nothing about it now; come and dine with me to-day, and we’ll discuss the affair together after dinner; or if you prefer a ‘distraction,’ as we used to say in Dunkerque, why then I’ll arrange something fashionable for your evening’s amusement.  Come, what say you to hearing Father Keogh preach, or would you like a supper at the Carlingford, or perhaps you prefer a soiree chez Miladi; for all of these Dublin affords—­all three good in their way, and very intellectual.”

“Well, Tom, I’m yours; but I should prefer your dining with me; I am at Bilton’s; we’ll have our cutlet quite alone, and—­”

“And be heartily sick of each other, you were going to add.  No, no, Harry; you must dine with me; I have some remarkably nice people to present you to--six is the hour--sharp six--number ___ Molesworth-street, Mrs. Clanfrizzle’s—­easily find it—­large fanlight over the door—­huge lamp in the hall, and a strong odour of mutton broth for thirty yards on each side of the premises—­and as good luck would have it, I see old Daly the counsellor, as they call him, he’s the very man to get to meet you, you always liked a character, eh!”

Saying this, O’Flaherty disengaged himself from my arm, and hurried across the street towards a portly middle-aged looking gentleman, with the reddest face I ever beheld.  After a brief but very animated colloquy, Tom returned, and informed that that all was right; he had secured Daly.

“And who is Daly?” said I, inquiringly, for I was rather interested in hearing what peculiar qualification as a diner-out the counsellor might lay claim to, many of Tom’s friends being as remarkable for being the quizzed as the quizzers.

“Daly,” said he, “is the brother of a most distinguished member of the Irish bar, of which he himself is also a follower, bearing however, no other resemblance to the clever man than the name, for as assuredly as the reputation of the one is inseparably linked with success, so unerringly is the other coupled with failure, and strange to say, that the stupid man is fairly convinced that his brother owes all his success to him, and that to his disinterested kindness the other is indebted for his present exalted station.  Thus it is through life; there seems ever to accompany dullness a sustaining power of vanity, that like a life-buoy, keeps a mass afloat whose weight unassisted would sink into obscurity.  Do you know that my friend Denis there imagines himself the first man that ever enlightened Sir Robert Peel as to Irish affairs; and, upon my word, his reputation on this head stands incontestably higher than on most others.”

“You surely cannot mean that Sir Robert Peel ever consulted with, much less relied upon, the statements of such a person, as you described you friend Denis to be?”