Photo by W. Leonard
Upper Lake, Killarney
Leaving the hotel the other day Boyse summoned a car, but the driver thereof was in such a state of tatters that the lady of the party refused to ride in that car. To the driver of the one chosen she remarked, "That man must be very poor; you should club together and buy him new clothes." "Poor,—not at all, me lady; he's rich, but so ticklesome that not a tailor in town can take his measure."
As we are en route to the fair grounds I discover that Boyse does not approve of my costume, but it is some time before I find out wherein I fall short. It turns out to lie in my hat, a brown Derby. At home black hats vanish with warm weather and brown take their place, but here I learn that a brown Derby belongs to the "fast lot which one does not know,"—hence Boyse's disgust, but that does not affect me in the least and I insist upon wearing my brown hat. I really think it almost spoiled his pleasure in the horse show, if anything could do that.
The day turns out pleasant and the crowd is large. The viceroy does not come, which certainly detracts not at all from the pleasure of the people, as the real viceroy, the horse, is here in full state. Several of the officers are down from Buttevant and we pass a merry afternoon clouded only by Boyse's feeling about my hat—he sits afar off and does not appear to know me when acquaintances pass or if an introduction occurs is careful to state that I am an American—what a multitude of sins that covers;—I trust the statement is altogether unnecessary and that I could never be taken for anything else.