afternoon that followed Mrs. Rooney's
ball, his first impression was one bordering on irritation with O'Grady.
His quick-sightedness enabled him at once to see how completely he had
fallen into the trap of his worthy aide-de-camp; and although he had
confessedly spent a very pleasant evening, and laughed a great deal, now
that all was over, he would have preferred if the whole affair could
be quietly consigned to oblivion, or only remembered as a good joke for
after dinner. The scandal and the eclat it must cause in the capital
annoyed him considerably; and he knew that before a day passed over,
the incident of the guard of honour lying in bivouac around their horses
would furnish matter for every caricature-shop in Dublin. Ordering
O'Grady to his presence, and with a severity of manner in a great degree
assumed, he directed him to remedy, as far as might be, the consequences
of this blunder, and either contrive to give a totally different version
of the occurrence, or else by originating some new subject of scandal to
eclipse the memory of this unfortunate evening.

O'Grady promised and pledged himself to everything; vowed that he would
give such a turn to the affair that nobody would ever believe a word of
the story; assured the duke (God forgive him!) that however ridiculous
the Rooneys at night, by day they were models of discretion; and at
length took his leave to put his scheme into execution, heartily glad
to discover that his grace had forgotten all about Corny and the
knighthood, the recollection of which might have been attended with very
grave results to himself.

So much for his interview with the duke. Now for his diplomacy with Mrs.
Rooney!

It was about five o'clock on the following day when O'Grady cantered up
to the door. Giving his horse to his groom, he dashed boldly upstairs,
passed through the ante-chamber and the drawing-room, and tapping
gently at the door of a little boudoir, opened it at the same moment and
presented himself before Mrs. Paul.

That amiable lady, reclining _a la_ Princess OToole, was gracefully
disposed on a small sofa, regarding with fixed attention a little
plaster bust of his grace, which, with considerable taste and propriety,
was dressed in a blue coat and bright buttons, with a star on the
breast, a bit of sky-blue satin representing the ribbon of the Bath.
Nothing was forgotten; and a faint attempt was even made to represent
the colouring of the viceregal nose, which I