A tour in a country and with a climate like this is a mistake.' 'I suspect it is,' said Walpole drearily.
'There is nothing to see, no one to talk to, nowhere to stop at!' 'All true,' muttered the other.

'By the way, haven't we some plan or project for to-day--something about an old castle or an abbey to see ?' 'Yes, and the waiter brought me a letter.

I think it was addressed to you, and I left it on my dressing-table.

I had forgotten all about it.

I'll go and fetch it.' Short as his absence was, it gave Walpole time enough to recur to his late judgment on his tour, and once more call it a 'mistake, a complete mistake.' The Ireland of wits, dramatists, and romance-writers was a conventional thing, and bore no resemblance whatsoever to the rain-soaked, dreary-looking, depressed reality.