crowding as much as possible into the time. This zeal was
responsible for our leaving the Urbs Intacta, and pushing on to pass
the night in something smaller and more idyllic.

I dissuaded Francesca from seeking a lodging in Ballybricken by
informing her that it was the heart of the bacon industry, and the
home of the best-known body of pig-buyers in Ireland; but her mind
was fixed upon Kills and Ballies. On asking our jarvey the meaning
of Bally as a prefix, he answered reflectively: "I don't think
there's annything onderhanded in the manin', melady; I think it
means BALLY jist."

The name of the place where we did go shall never be divulged, lest
a curious public follow in our footsteps; and if perchance it have
not our youth, vigour, and appetite for adventure, it might die
there in the principal hotel, unwept, unhonoured, and unsung. The
house is said to be three hundred and seventy-five years old, but we
are convinced that this is a wicked understatement of its antiquity.
It must have been built since the Deluge, else it would at least
have had one general spring cleaning in the course of its existence.
Cromwell had been there too, and in the confusion of his departure
they must have forgotten to sweep under the beds. We entered our
rooms at ten in the evening, having dismissed our car, knowing well
that there was no other place to stop the night. We gave the jarvey
twice his fare to avoid altercation, 'but divil a penny less would
he take,' although it was he who had recommended the place as a cosy
hotel. "It looks like a small little house, melady, but 'tis large
inside, and it has a power o' beds in it." We each generously
insisted on taking the dirtiest bedroom (they had both been last
occupied by the Cromwellian soldiers, we agreed), but relinquished