car-driver between the hour at which he is ordered to be ready and that
at which he appears. It was a misty morning in early June, the time of
all times for Connemara, did the tourist only know it. The mountains
towered green and grey above the palely shining sea in which they stood;
the air was full of the sound of streams and the scent of wild flowers;
the thin mist had in it something of the dazzle of the sunlight that was
close behind it. Little Mrs. Spicer pulled down her veil: even after a
fortnight's fly-fishing she still retained some regard for her
complexion.

"She says she can't come," she responded; "she has letters to write or
something--and this is our last day!"

Mrs. Spicer evidently found the fact provoking.

"On this information the favourite receded 33 to 1," remarked Captain
Spicer. "I think you may as well chuck it, my dear."

"I should like to beat them both!" said his wife, flinging a pebble into
the rising tide that was very softly mouthing the seaweedy rocks below
them.

"Well, here's Rupert; you can begin on him."

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure!" said Rupert's sister
vindictively. "A great teasing, squabbling baby! Oh, how I hate fools!
and they are _both_ fools!--Oh, there you are, Rupert," a well-simulated
blandness invading her voice; "and what's Fanny Fitz doing?"

"She's trying to do a Mayo man over a horse-deal," replied Mr. Rupert