It is the most absurd thing in the world that Salemina, Francesca,
and I should be in Ireland together.

That any three spinsters should be fellow-travellers is not in
itself extraordinary, and so our former journeyings in England and
Scotland could hardly be described as eccentric in any way; but now
that I am a matron and Francesca is shortly to be married, it is
odd, to say the least, to see us cosily ensconced in a private
sitting-room of a Dublin hotel, the table laid for three, and not a
vestige of a man anywhere to be seen. Where, one might ask, if he
knew the antecedent circumstances, are Miss Hamilton's American
spouse and Miss Monroe's Scottish lover?

Francesca had passed most of the winter in Scotland. Her indulgent
parent had given his consent to her marriage with a Scotsman, but
insisted that she take a year to make up her mind as to which
particular one. Memories of her past flirtations, divagations,
plans for a life of single blessedness, all conspired to make him
incredulous, and the loyal Salemina, feeling some responsibility in
the matter, had elected to remain by Francesca's side during the
time when her affections were supposed to be crystallising into some
permanent form.

It was natural enough that my husband and I should spend the first
summer of our married life abroad, for we had been accustomed to do
this before we met, a period that we always allude to as the Dark
Ages; but no sooner had we arrived in Edinburgh, and no sooner had
my husband persuaded our two friends to join us in a long, delicious
Irish holiday, than he was compelled to return to America for a
month or so.