In natures, tastes, and dispositions, they were miles asunder, and disagreement between them would have been unceasing on every subject, had they not been gentlemen.

It was this alone--this gentleman element--made their companionship possible, and, in the long run, not unpleasant.

So much more has good-breeding to do in the common working of daily life than the more valuable qualities of mind and temperament.
Though much younger than his companion, Walpole took the lead in all the arrangements of the journey, determined where and how long they should halt, and decided on the route next to be taken; the other showing a real or affected indifference on all these matters, and making of his town-bred apathy a very serviceable quality in the midst of Irish barbarism and desolation.

On politics, too--if that be the name for such light convictions as they entertained--they differed: the soldier's ideas being formed on what he fancied would be the late Duke of Wellington's opinion, and consisted in what he called 'putting down.' Walpole was a promising Whig; that is, one who coquets with Radical notions, but fastidiously avoids contact with the mob; and who, fervently believing that all popular concessions are spurious if not stamped with Whig approval, would like to treat the democratic leaders as forgers and knaves.
If, then, there was not much of similarity between these two men to attach them to each other, there was what served for a bond of union: they belonged to the same class in life, and used pretty nigh the same forms for their expression of like and dislike; and as in traffic it contributes wonderfully to the facilities of business to use the same money, so in the common intercourse of life will the habit to estimate things at the same value conduce to very easy relations, and something almost like friendship.
While they sat over the fire awaiting their supper, each had lighted a cigar, busying himself from time to time in endeavouring to dry some drenched article of dress, or extracting from damp and dripping pockets their several contents.
'This, then,' said the younger man--'this is the picturesque Ireland our tourist writers tell us of; and the land where the _Times_ says the traveller will find more to interest him than in the Tyrol or the Oberland.' 'What about the climate ?' said the other, in a deep bass voice.
'Mild and moist, I believe, are the epithets; that is, it makes you damp, and it keeps you so.' 'And the inns ?' 'The inns, it is admitted, might be better; but the traveller is admonished against fastidiousness, and told that the prompt spirit of obligeance, the genial cordiality, he will meet with, are more than enough to repay him for the want of more polished habits and mere details of comfort and convenience.' 'Rotten humbug! _I_ don't want cordiality from my innkeeper.' 'I should think not! As, for instance, a bit of carpet in this room would be worth more than all the courtesy that showed us in.' 'What was that lake called--the first place I mean ?' asked Lockwood.
'Lough Brin.

I shouldn't say but with better weather it might be pretty.' A half-grunt of dissent was all the reply, and Walpole went on-- It's no use painting a landscape when it is to be smudged all over with Indian ink.