This was exactly what we did want, and here we encamped, on the
half-hearted advice of some Irish friends in the town, who knew
nothing else more comfortable to recommend.
"With us, small, quiet, or out-of-the-way places are never clean; or
if they are, then they are not Irish," they said. "You had better
see Ireland from the tourist's point of view for a few years yet,
until we have learned the art of living; but if you are determined
to know the humours of the people, cast all thought of comfort
behind you."
So we did, and we afterward thought that this would be a good motto
for Mrs. Mullarkey to carve over the door of Knockarney House. (My
name for it is adopted more or less by the family, though Francesca
persists in dating her letters to Ronald from 'The Rale Thing,'
which it undoubtedly is.) We take almost all the rooms in the
house, but there are a few other guests. Mrs. Waterford, an old
lady of ninety-three, from Mullinavat, is here primarily for her
health, and secondarily to dispose of threepenny shares in an
antique necklace, which is to be raffled for the benefit of a Roman
Catholic chapel. Then we have a fishing gentleman and his bride
from Glasgow, and occasional bicyclers who come in for a dinner, a
tea, or a lodging. These three comforts of a home are sometimes
quite indistinguishable with us: the tea is frequently made up of
fragments of dinner, and the beds are always sprinkled with crumbs.
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