! How do you do, Mr. Harding? And tell
me, Alice, what do you think of my dress?'

May was in cream faille with ruchings of tulle. A beautiful piece of
white lilac nestled upon her right breast.

'You are very nice, May, and I think the white sets off your hair to
advantage.'

'Well, good-bye dear, Fred and I are going into the next room; one is so
pushed about here, but there are nice large velvet sofas there where one
can sit and talk. I advise you to come.'

In the reposing shadows of rich velvet and sombre hangings women leaned
over the sofas, talking to men in uniform, while two strange-looking
creatures, in long garments, walked up and down the room--Dons from
Trinity, who argued with Mr. Adair earnestly.

'He is one of the lights of your county, is he not?' said Harding,
indicating Mr. Adair.

'Oh, yes,' replied Alice, 'he took honours and a gold medal at Trinity
College.'

'I know he did, and a capacity for passing competitive examinations is
the best proof of a man's incapacity for everything else.'

'Do you know him?'

'Yes, a little. He wears his University laurels at forty, builds parish
schools, and frightens his neighbours with the liberality of his
opinions and the rectitude of his life.'

'But have you seen his pamphlets on the amalgamation of the poor
houses?' said Alice, astonished at the slight consideration afforded to
the rural genius.

'I have heard of them. It appears he is going in for politics; but his
politics will be on a par with his saw-mill, and his farmyard in
concrete. Mr. Adair is a well-known person. Every county in England,
Ireland, and Scotland, possesses and is proud of its Mr. Adair.'

Alice wondered for some moments in silence; and when suddenly her
thoughts detached themselves, she said: 'We didn't see you in the
ladies' drawing-room.'

'I was very busy all the morning. I had two articles to write for one of
my papers and some books to review.'

'How nice it must be to have a duty to perform every day; to have always
an occupation to which you can turn with pleasure.'

'I don't know that I look upon my ink-bottle as an eternal haven of
bliss. Still, I would sooner contribute articles to daily and weekly
papers than sit in the Kildare Street Club, drinking glasses of sherry.
Having nothing to do must be a terrible occupation, and one difficult to
fulfil with dignity and honour. But,' he added, as if a sudden thought
had struck him, 'you must have a great deal of