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advice.’
    As an appeal to the aesthetic leanings of O’LiamRoe, it was a dead failure. ‘Ah, faith, is he one of those?’ said the Chieftain with pity. ‘The late King Henry VIII of England thought the same: that every drop of us should dress, talk and pray like the English, and shave off the face hair as well. It was a grand thing for my father that the hair grew on him like wire; and did he shave off the moustaches at night, there they were, glorious as ever, by morning.’
    A brief silence fell, honouring this speech. O’LiamRoe, unaffected by it, glanced round. ‘Are you not for making some remark, Thady?’ And to the priest: ‘The tongue on him is green-moulded for want of exercise. There’s nothing he’d like better than a word on the hydrography.’
    The ollave’s black face turned, stamped with affront.
    ‘Hydrography, is it? It’s hydrography we were wanting last night, God help us, and the smoke curling like an old, dried cow out of your nightshirt. I’m clean out of my nerves entirely, with your burnings and your sinkings; and “talk here” and “talk there” on top of it.’
    ‘Have I offended you?’ said O’LiamRoe, looking narrowly at his ollave.
    ‘Burnings!’ It was Lord d’Aubigny’s exclamation.
    ‘You have, so.’
    ‘But a small sup of wine, now, would put the extremities back into your bloodstream, Thady?’
    ‘It might, so,’ said the ollave, sulkily.
    ‘Burnings? What’s all this, Stewart?’
    So, to the Archer’s chagrin, the news of the night’s unfortunate incident was prematurely unfolded, while Lord d’Aubigny’s handsome, high-coloured face set in extreme irritation. The fat fool and the thin fool, with their scarecrow wardrobe, were clearly of no consequence. The accident, obviously, had been slight; the guests of the King of France had been discomfited in no way that mattered. He cast a chastening glance at Stewart, uttered a few routine words of regret and began to move. The party was actually on its feet, its baggage collected, scores paid and horses engaged to take them to Rouen, when Lord d’Aubigny recalled Madame Baule.
    He stopped dead. ‘Before we leave, O’LiamRoe, we’ve a call tomake first. There’s a countrywoman of yours in the house, a charming lady who’s going to Rouen for the Entry. She hoped to see you before you left.’
    ‘Oh?’ said O’LiamRoe.
    ‘Madame Baule, she’s called. Married a Frenchman years ago—he’s dead—and keeps a most unusual house in Touraine. A delightful person, an original; cherished, I assure you, in every well-bred home she visits. But of course, you know her,’ said Lord d’Aubigny, sweeping the two Irishmen incontinently into a side passage.
    ‘Do I?’ said O’LiamRoe weakly.
    ‘From the lady, I certainly assumed so. Here, I think.—Yes, the lady herself certainly knew all about you. Come along.’ And he scratched at the door. It opened, and he pushed the Prince of Barrow inside. ‘Here he is: The O’LiamRoe, lord of the Slieve Bloom, and his secretary. Madame Baule, late of Limerick. You two, I’m sure, are acquainted.’
    Had he known it, Lord d’Aubigny was being amply rewarded for his embarrassments of a short time before.
    On the wreathed marmalade figure in the doorway fell the pinlike scrutiny of two round, pale eyes in a firm, weatherbeaten face packed with teeth. There was an impression of piled, plaited hair, caterpillar-heaped with ornaments, of a square neck filled with nooses of jewellery. A broad hand gripped his lordship’s silvery sleeve. ‘Boyle!’ screeched a voice high as a bat’s, thin, jolly, encouraging. ‘Boyle! You can call yourselves d’Aubignys all you want, John, my darling, but keep your expatriate, hand-licking tongue off a good Irish name.… O’LiamRoe!’
    ‘Madam,’ said O’LiamRoe politely, and quite subdued.
    The ropes swung and jangled. ‘You’ve the sorrow’s own whiskers on you, have you not?’
    ‘There’s worse at the back of me,’