"Vilits, vilits, vilits, your arner!"

"Oh, bother violets!" said Mr. French. He had just come down the steps of the Kildare Street Club, he had lost five pounds at cards, the afternoon was drizzling, and he was being pestered to buy violets.

The violet vendor, a fantastical, filthy old woman in a poke bonnet, heedless of the rebuke, pursued her avocation and Mr. French, trotting like a dog behind him, chanting her wares, her misfortunes, his good looks.

"Sure, they're only a penny the bunch; sure, they're only a penny the bunch. Oh, bless your han'some face! Sure, you wouldn't be walkin' the shtreets widout a flower in yer coat. Let your hand drap into your pocket and find a penny, and it's the blessin's of Heaven will be pourin' on you before the night's out. Sure, it's a bunch I'll be givin' you for nothin' at all, but just the pleasure of fixin' it in your coat, an' they as big as cabbiges and on'y a penny the bunch."

It was a kind of song, a recitative, and invocation.

"I tell you I have no change," flashed the flowerless one. "I tell you I have no change."

The priestess of Flora halted and sniffed.

"Change!" said she. "No, nor nothin' to change."

Mr. French laughed as he opened his umbrella and hailed a passing outside car. "Faith," said he, as he mounted on the side of the car, "she's about hit the bull's-eye."

"Did you spake, sir?" said the jarvey.

"No, I was only thinking. Drive me to 32 Leeson Street. And where on earth did you pick up this old rattletrap of a horse from?"

"Pick him up!" said the jarvey with a grin. "Faith, the last time I picked him up was when he tumbled down in Dame Street yesterday afternoon, wid a carload of luggudge dhrivin' to Westland Row."

"You seem to have a talent for picking up rubbish, then?" said Mr. French.

"It's the fault of the p'leece," replied the other with an extension of the grin that nature, whisky, and the profession of car-driving had fixed upon his face. "It's the fault of the p'leece, bad 'cess to them!"

"And how's that?" asked Mr. French incautiously.

"Sure, they forbids me to refuse a fare. Jay up, y' divil! What are yiz shyin' at? Did y' never see a barra of greens before? Now thin, now thin, what are you takin' yourself to be, or what ails you, at all, at all?"

The car stopped at 32 Leeson Street. Mr. French descended, gave the jarvey a shilling for his fare and sixpence for a drink, and knocked at the hall door.

Mr. Mead was in, and the old butler, who opened the door, showed the visitor straight into the library—a comfortable, old-fashioned room, where, before a bright fire, Mr. Mead, a small, bright-eyed, apple-cheeked, youthful-looking person of eighty or so, was seated in an armchair reading Jorrocks' "Jaunts and Jollities."

"Why, there you are!" cried Mead, jumping up.

"And there you are!" said Mr. French, clasping the old fellow's hand. "Why, it's younger you're growing every time I see you! Did you get my wire? Oh! you did, did you? Two o'clock! The scoundrels! I sent it off from the Shelbourne at twelve. No matter. And how's the family?"

"All right," replied Mead, putting Jorrocks on the mantelshelf and ringing the bell. "Billy married last winter. You remember I wrote to you? And Kate's engaged—James, a bottle of the blue-seal port!—and what's the news?"

"News!" said French with a short laugh. "What news do you expect from the West of Ireland except news of men being plundered and cattle maimed? News! I'm leaving the place; and that's why I wanted to see you. See here, Mead."

Mead, who was opening a bottle of the blue-seal port—an operation which he always conducted with his own hands—listened while French poured into his attentive ears the tale of his woes.

"The blackguards!" said the old man when French had finished. "And do you mean to say you've gone off and left the horse behind you for these chaps to maim? Maybe——"

"Oh! Moriarty is there," replied French. "He's sleeping in the stable, and Andy is sleeping in the loft. But it's on my mind that some dirty trick will be played before we get the colt to England, and that's why I've called to see you. Look here; you've got that place for your polo ponies down in Sligo. Will you let me take Garryowen over there and finish his training?"

"You mean my place at Ballyhinton?"

"Yes."

"Sure, I've sold it. Didn't you know?"

"Sold it!"

"Eight months ago."

"Good heavens!" said French. "That does me. And I've come all the way to Dublin to see you about it. Was there ever such luck!"

"You see," said Mead, "I'm not as young as I was. Bryan—the chap I had there—was swindling me right and left, so I sold off, lock, stock, and barrel. I'm sorry."

"Faith, and so am I," said French.

The big man, for the first time in his life, felt knocked out. Never for a moment did he dream of giving in, but he was winded. Besides all the worries we know of, a number of small things had declared against him, culminating in his loss at cards. He felt that he was in a vein of bad luck, under a cloud, and that until the cloud lifted and the luck changed it was hopeless for him to make plans or do anything.

He took leave of Mead and returned to the Shelbourne on foot. The rain had ceased, and as he drew near the hotel the sun broke through the clouds.

As he entered the hotel he ran almost into the arms of a young man dressed in a fawn-coloured overcoat, who, with his hat on the back of his head, was standing in the hall, a cigarette between his lips and a matchbox in his hand.

"I beg your pardon," said Mr. French; then, starting back, "Why, sure to goodness, if it isn't Mr. Dashwood!"