Master Kennyfeck."

"Pearse," said the host, "is dinner ready?"

"My mistress and the young ladies have dined, sir; but Mr. Jones and Mr.
Softly are in the parlor."

"Well, let us have something at once; or, would you prefer, Mr. Cashel,
making any change in your dress first?"

"I say dinner above all things," said the youth, disencumbering himself
of a great Mexican mantle.

"Perfectly right; quite agree with you," said Kennyfeck, endeavoring to
assume a little of his guest's dash; "and here we are. Ah, Jones, how
d'ye do? Mr. Cashel, this is my friend Mr. Jones. Mr. Softly, very
glad to see you. Mr. Softly.--Mr. Cashel. Don't stir, I beg; keep your
places. We 'll have a bit of dinner here, and join you at your wine
afterwards. Meanwhile, I 'll just step upstairs, and be back again in a
moment; you'll excuse me, I 'm sure."

"Oh, certainly," replied Cashel, who appeared as if he could excuse
anything with a better grace than the ceremonious slowness of the
butler's arrangements.

There was a pause of a few seconds as Mr. Kennyfeck left the room,
broken, at last, by Mr. Jones asking if they had not been detained by
contrary winds.

"No, I think not; I fancy the weather was pretty average kind of
weather. Had we been expected here earlier?"

"Yes; Mrs. Kennyfeck mentioned to me Monday, and afterwards Tuesday, as
the very latest day for your arrival."

Cashel made no remark; and, soon after, Mr. Pearse's entrance with the
soup put an end to the conversation. "Mr. Kennyfeck desired me to say,
sir, not to wait for him; he'll be down presently."

"What do you call this soup?"

"Mock-turtle, sir."

"Rather too much Madeira in it for my taste; but that sha' n't prevent
my having a glass of wine. Will you permit me, gentlemen?"

The parties bowed policy; but still the intercourse did not progress;
and in the exchanged glances of those at the large table, and the
sidelong looks Cashel occasionally threw towards them, it was easy to
see that neither party had made way with the other.

"I fear Kennyfeck is not going to make his appearance," said Cashel, as
he seemed to hesitate about proceeding with his dinner.

"I should n't advise you waiting," cried Jones; "the fish is growing
cold."

"I suspect Mr. Kennyfeck is fatigued by his journey, sir," said Mr.
Softly, in his most bland of voices; "I thought I remarked it by his
face."

"Oh, did you?" said Cashel, with a very peculiar look of knowingness.

"Yes