'These Irish, they are odd without being droll, just as they are poor without being picturesque; but of all the delusions we nourish about them, there is not one so thoroughly absurd as to call them dangerous.' He had just arrived at this mature opinion, when his friend re-entered and handed him the note.
'Here is a piece of luck.

_Per Bacco_!' cried Walpole, as he ran over the lines.

'This beats all I could have hoped for.

Listen to this--"Dear Mr.
Walpole,--I cannot tell you the delight I feel in the prospect of seeing a dear friend, or a friend from dear Italy, which is it?
"' 'Who writes this ?' 'A certain Mademoiselle Kostalergi, whom I knew at Rome; one of the prettiest, cleverest, and nicest girls I ever met in my life.' 'Not the daughter of that precious Count Kostalergi you have told me such stories of ?' 'The same, but most unlike him in every way.

She is here, apparently with an uncle, who is now from home, and she and her cousin invite us to luncheon to-day.' 'What a lark!' said the other dryly.
'We'll go, of course ?' 'In weather like this ?' 'Why not?
Shall we be better off staying here?
I now begin to remember how the name of this place was so familiar to me.