"It's not my country—I'm American."
"Are you?" said Mr. Dashwood in a relieved voice. "How jolly! I thought you might be Irish. I say," in a confidential tone of voice, "isn't it a beastly hole?"
"Which?"
"Ireland."
"Why, I thought you said you liked it!"
"I thought you were Irish. I do like it in a way. The mountains and the whisky aren't bad, and the people are jolly enough if they'd only wash themselves, but the hotels—oh, my!"
"You're staying at the inn near the railway station at Cloyne?"
"I am," said Mr. Dashwood.
"Then you know Biddy and the stuffed dog?"