ood owns a share of the credit. She
advanced on the first pause, and claimed acquaintanceship with the
Fitzmaurices. The story of their last meeting and Tommy's first triumph
in oratory came, of course; the famous horseshoe received due mention;
and Tommy described with much humor his terror of the stage. From the
speech to its most effective passage was a natural transition; equally
natural the transition to Tommy's grandmother, the Irish famine, and the
benevolence of Lady Sackville.

Everybody was interested, and it was Sackville himself, who brought the
Fitzmaurices' noble ancestors, the apocryphal Viscounts Fitzmaurice of
King James's creation, on to the carpet.

He was entirely serious. "My grandmother told me of your
great-grandfather, Lord Fitzmaurice; she saw him ride to hounds once,
when she was a little girl. They say he was the boldest rider in
Ireland, and a renowned duellist too. King James gave the title to his
grandfather, didn't he? and the countryside kept it, if it was given
rather too late in the day to be useful. I am glad you have restored the
family fortunes, Mr. Fitzmaurice."

The Cabinet girl looked on Tommy with respect, and Miss Van Harlem
blushed like an angel.

"All is lost," said Mrs. Carriswood to herself; yet she smiled. Going
home, she found a word for Tommy's ear. The old Virginian dinner had
been most successful. The Fitzmaurices (who had been almost forced into
the banquet by Beatoun's imperious hospitality) were not a wet blanket
in the least. Patrick Fitzmaurice, brogue and all, was an Irish
gentleman without a flaw. He blossomed out into a modest wag; and told
two or three comic stories as acceptably as he was used to tell them to
a very different circle--only, carrying a fresher flavor of wit to this
circle, perhaps, it enjoyed them more. Mrs. Fitzmaurice looked scared
and ate almost nothing, with the greatest propriety, and her fork in her
left hand. Yet even she thawed under Miss Van Harlem's attentions and
gentle Mrs. Beatoun's tact, and the winning ways of the last Beatoun
baby. She took this absent cherub to her heart with such undissembled
warmth that its mother ever since has called her "a sweet, funny little
old lady."

They were both (Patrick and his wife) quite unassuming and retiring,
and no urging could dissuade them from parting with the company at the
tavern door.

"My word, Tommy, your mother and I can git home by ourselves," whispered
honest Patrick; "we've