'Hear him speak of Ireland.' 'Would he not speak of Ireland in a tone to catch the Irishwoman ?' 'He is past thoughts of catching, dearest.

At that age men are pools of fish, or what you will: they are not anglers.

Next year, if you invite us, we will come again.' 'But you will come to stay in the Winter ?' 'Certainly.

But I am speaking of one of my holidays.' They kissed fervently.

The lady mounted; the grey and portly lord followed her; Sir Lukin flourished his whip, and Emma was left to brood over her friend's last words: 'One of my holidays.' Not a hint to the detriment of her husband had passed.