"Tell me," said I, "how is it I find you thus, got up in the height of
fashion, loitering with intent to lady-kill in this colossal rabbit-warren
which knows no hound but the sleuth, no horse but the towel? How is it,
man, when there's a Peace on and the month is February and there's no frost
south of the Liffey? Why aren't you dressed in a coat that is pink in spots
and a cap that is velvet in places, flipping over your stone-faced banks on
a rampageous four-year-old that you bought for ten pounds down, ten pounds
some time, a sack of seed oats and an old saddle, and will eventually palm
off on an Englishman at Ballsbridge for two hundred cash? What about the
hounds? The Ballinknock Versatiles? What are they doing without their
master? Going for improving country walks with Patsey Mike, two and two
like young ladies from a seminary, or sitting up on their benches, a tear
in every eye, wailing, 'Oh, where is our wandering boy tonight?'

"And what about the Ballinknock foxes, eh? Aren't they entitled to some
consideration? Didn't they carry on patiently for four dull years while you
were in France, learning to walk in the cavalry, on the understanding that
you'd make up for it when you got back by hunting them every day of the
week? Have you no love or sympathy for dumb animals? Why are you here? What
are you flying from? Tell me your dread secret. Is it debt, arson,
murder--or is some woman threatening to marry you?"

Andy growled into his whiskey-and-soda, then suddenly pointed out of the
window. "See the advertisement on that bus?"

"'MIND THE WIDOW'," I read, "'shrieking comedy by Cosmo--'"

"No, not that one," Andy grumbled; "t'other."

It was a picture of a smiling gentleman with a head that gleamed like