"It has been called that," said I.
"It has? Well—I'm not surprised. I go to Dublin myself occasionally—just to see how the world's wagging. It's a change after this. I always say to my sister, Mrs. Quigley—you must come down and see us—I always say to her that the danger of a place like this is that you get in a groove. Fatal thing, you know—fatal thing—a groove."
"I don't think you need fear that," said I, "if you go to Dublin every year."
"Well, I don't go every year, not regularly; it's an expensive place you know—Dublin—there are such a crowd of things to be seen, such a number of things to be done, and they all cost money. I was up there the time the old Queen came over—fine reception we gave her too—fine reception. I remember it as if it were yesterday."
At this point he suddenly assumed that terrible attitude of the raconteur. I felt Bellwattle's hand tugging gently at my coat.
"I beg your pardon, General Ffrench," said I, and then I turned to her. "Are we keeping you?" I asked.
"I think I'd better be getting on," said she.
"Tell me that another time then, will you?" I suggested. "I've often wanted to know what sort of a reception she really did get."
"Thank you," said Bellwattle, when we had passed out of hearing.
"Thank you," said I. "Now tell me, has he ever been to Dublin since he gave the old Queen that magnificent reception?"