also there. Here, even, are “sets,” and these were amongst the “upper circles,” and though all meet and are friends they don't consider themselves all on the same level. What the difference is, or where the line is drawn, I know not. I discovered all this when I proposed to give a dinner—a regular “spread”—at the hotel to them all, in return for their hospitality, but found they did not all wish to be asked together, and on Mrs. M‘Nulty's advice left it alone. It would have been rather difficult to fit in the policeman, the boy, the cassowary, and the dog, and in my eyes they were the most desirable, for I was attached to them all.
The Irish banker was a pleasant man, always hanging about, and he sometimes came and sat on the verandah in the evenings. Every one seemed to have a desire to get me to himself and talk to me—I suppose a stranger was a sort of relief from the small circle where they all knew each other so well.
I used to play the piano for Bridget's benefit and to amuse the children, for Mrs. M'Nulty's children were as friendly and cordial as every one else. One night, stirred up by my Irish surroundings, I was playing the “Wearing of the Green” when the door opened and the Irish banker looked in and said most plaintively, “Oh, don’t—don't—play that, I cannot—I cannot stand it!”
What he meant may be doubtful ill-natured people can take it as they please—but I took it that it awakened in him memories he could not stand, and that he did not mean a severe reflection on my musical talents. Lives are lonely in such places, and men become very human about things and no doubt let memory dwell on brighter days of the past. This man then came and sat beside me on the verandah and
