Maltese;
but such a salad as he could make! There was everything you could think
of in it,--tomato, eggs, sardines, radishes, beetroot, cucumber."

"Every Italian is a bit of a cook," said Maitland, relieving adroitly
the company from the tiresome detail of the Colonel. "I 'll back my
friend Caffarelli for a dish of macaroni against all professional
artists."

While the Colonel and his wife got into a hot dispute whether there was
or was not a slight flavor of parmesan in the salad, the others gathered
around Maitland to hear more of his friend. Indeed, it was something new
to hear of an Italian of class and condition. They only knew the nation
as tenors or modellers or language masters. Their compound idea of
Italian was a thing of dark skin and dark eyes; very careless in dress,
very submissive in aspect, with a sort of subdued fire, however, in
look, that seemed to say how much energy was only sleeping there! and
when Maitland sketched the domestic ties of a rich magnate of the land,
living a life of luxurious indolence, in a sort of childlike simplicity
as to what engaged other men in other countries, without a thought for
questions of politics, religion, or literature, living for mere life's
sake, he interested them much.

"I shall be delighted to ask him here," said he, at last; "only let me
warn you against disappointment. He'll not be witty like a Frenchman,
nor profound like a German, nor energetic like an Englishman; he 'll
neither want to gain knowledge nor impart it. He'll only ask to be
permitted to enjoy the pleasures of a very charming society without any
demand being made upon him to contribute anything; to make him fancy, in
short, that he knew you all years and years ago, and has just come back
out of cloud-land to renew the intimacy. Will you have him after this?"

"By all means," was the reply. "Go and write your letter to him."

Maitland went to his room, and soon wrote the following:--

"Caro Carlo mio,--Who'd have thought of seeing you in
Ireland? but I have scarce courage to ask you how and why
you came here, lest you retort the question upon myself. For
the moment, however, I am comfortably established in a
goodish sort of country-house, with some pretty women, and,
thank Heaven, no young men save one son of the family, whom
I have made sufficiently afraid of me to repress all
familiarities. They beg me to ask you here, and I see
nothing again