My companion thought he would like a room fronting Lough Swilly and so did I.
The maid who had taken charge of us said that that wouldn't be possible, as the only available rooms having such an outlook had been engaged by wire.
"But," said my insistent friend, who is the type of American who gets what he wants by smiles if possible, but who certainly gets it, "they won't be here to-day, will they?"
"No, not to-day; to-morrow."
"Well, let us have the rooms for to-night."
"But, will ye give them up when they come?" said she, still hesitating.
"Surely. Depend upon it. Count on us to vamoose just as soon as you give the word."
"But these people come every year," said she tenaciously.
"I don't wonder at it," said O'Donnell. (My friend is of Irish descent.) "I would, too, if I didn't live so far away. Don't you worry, honey. We'll just go out like little lambs as soon as you give the word."
There was something delightfully quaint in the notion that because people were coming to the rooms to-morrow night we ought not to have them to-night—the girl was perfectly sincere. She evidently knew the lure of sunrise on the mountains and the lake and feared her ability to oust us once we were ensconced.