So that when she met him she did not recognize him at first, nor for many days afterward. On his face were puzzlement and a frown. A clean-cut, red-headed man, he was standing in the road on a frosty November morning, when she was out walking a brace of foxhound puppies. The puppies seemed delighted at the sight of him, all but tearing the leash from her hand.  
"Could you tell me," he asked, "where Tallaght is?" He pulled the ears of the foxhound puppies.
 
"You 're in Tallaght," she said.
 
He looked incredulously at the scattered houses.
 
"Is this—"
 
"Yes. Is there any place in particular you 're looking for?"
 
"No," he said, "just Tallaght."
 
"Well, you have Tallaght." She laughed a little at his rueful expression. "You seem surprised."
 
"I am," he laughed. "For many years, when I was a child, I have been hearing about Tallaght, until it had assumed tremendous proportions for me, and now—"
 
"Abroad?"
 
"Yes."
 
"Australia?"
 
"No. America."
 
"What are you looking for? The old homestead?"
 
"No," he said; "I don't think there ever was an old homestead. There might have been a little cabin somewhere, but it was n't here." He laughed. "I 'll tell you. My father was an old Fenian, and he was at Tallaght when they gathered to descend on Dublin, but for some reason or other the battle was not fought, nor the enemy driven into the sea, nor anything. And my father, with a lot of others, fled to America. But I had an impression of a mountain pass and camp fires and great guns."
 
"It rained all night, did n't it? Did your father say?"
 
"No, he never mentioned the rain."
 
She liked this man, she told herself directly. The big, clean look of him, his gray eyes and red hair, his splendid teeth. Also there was something about him so easy. He was Irish; no mistaking that. But pleasant, fine Irish. It was not always you met them pleasant and sincere. And this man was sincere. This man was not inimical. They would make a nice pair, she thought simply, he big and clear-eyed and red, herself slim and dark.
 
"Could I bother you again?" he asked. "How do I get to the railway station?"
 
"I 'm going that way, if you care to come."
 
There was a nice chivalry about him; she felt that as they walked together. Was that American? she wondered.
 
"May I ask you something? Are most Americans like you?"
 
"Yes," he said, "of course."
 
She was puzzled. She had an impression that all Americans were called "Silas" and twanged, "I guess." Also, they chewed gum. There was something wrong.
 
"You are n't called Silas, are you?"
 
"No; Richard. Did you think all Americans were called Silas?"
 
"Something like that," she admitted. And they looked at each other and laughed. She had a joyous feeling that the maids at home would disapprove of this strongly. And that the old gardeners would tremble with rage. But the dogs approved.
 
"What sort of time are you having in Ireland?"
 
"Not so good," he admitted. "I 've been here a week, and the only friends I 've made are cab-drivers. Also, I have a bowing acquaintance with a head waiter."
 
"Cab-drivers are good fun," she ruminated.
 
They were at the station now.
 
"Look here," she said suddenly as she was leaving: "if you are having a rotten time like that in Dublin, and know nobody, it must be lonely! I wonder—" She looked at him fearlessly. "Look here: if you 'd care to, come out and see me at Mount Kyteler—my name 's Kyteler. There are dogs and horses and an old house you might like to see."
 
"May I? Thanks. My name's O'Conor. I 'll come, then, Miss Kyteler."
 
"Lady Margery Kyteler."
 
"Do I call you all that? Lady Margery Kyteler?"
 
"No. Just Lady Margery."
 
"Lady Margery! That's nice."
 
When he came, he came with a great armful of flowers, which Margery received with a smile and courtesy, and turned over to Rose Ann. He seemed scrubbed, so glistening was he. How like an old friend he was, with his firm handshake and laughing eyes.
 
"Now," he said, "I 'd like the worst over."
 
"What is the worst?"
 
"Oh, meeting people. Your relatives. The Lady This and the Lady That, and the countess, and the duke. Above all, the duke."
 
"There are none," she said. "I live here by myself."
 
"All by yourself, in this big house?"
 
"Yes."
 
"Might I ask, are you married?"
 
"No-o-o," she pondered. "Um, no."
 
He looked at her incredulously. He had never in his life seen any one so beautiful, he thought. The small face, the soft and sweet and smiling dark eyes, the hair like a perfumed dark cap on a head whose sweet shape he could imagine. And the supple figure in the frock that was close in the bosom and belled like a dancer's from the waist down.
 
"Well, that beats—" he murmured.
 
"Beats hell, doesn't it?" She finished for him.
 
"These old pictures, some of them are good." She smiled. "That's Gilles de Kyteler—not the one who came with Strongbow but a later one. And that's Fulke Kyteler, who rebelled with Silken Thomas, and tried to burn the Archbishop of Cashel in his own cathedral. They were very disappointed when they found the archbishop had slipped out. And that—" she pointed to a polished oval of black stone, framed in antique silver—"is Dame Alice Kyteler's magical mirror. She was the greatest of the Irish witches."
 
She gave him tea and listened to him talk of America and of his work there. He was some sort of engineer, building bridges. She got an impression of him standing on an artifice of some kind, with plans in his hand, directing a whole crowd of workmen. He had been in Brazil and in China.
 
"You must be a good engineer," she said in her direct way.
 
"I 'm supposed to be a very good engineer," he laughed.
 
"Do you make a great deal of money?"
 
"A good deal. Not a great deal."
 
"I 'm glad," she said. He looked at her in surprise. She was dusting her fingers daintily, but her eyes smiled. She was really glad. And he said to himself, "My soul! we 're friends."
 
She took him into the garden, and he laughed.
 
"And I brought you flowers." There was a little shade of disappointment in his laugh.
 
"Indeed and indeed—" she looked him in the eyes and lied sweetly—"'Twas I needed them, for it's the devil and all for me to get any flowers out of my own garden. My two old gardeners are that mean! Darby 'd begrudge me a daisy for fear it 'd leave an unsightly gap in the grass. There he is, watching me for fear I 'll pull a leaf. Darby, this is Mr. O'Conor, and I 'm showing him the garden."
 
"If he 'd come fifteen years ago, your Ladyship, or even ten years ago, he 'd have seen the like would have made his heart glad. But in the latter years, with the bad weather that's in it, now too much rain and now not enough rain at all, and the wind that nothing is a shelter against, and the soil that's growing poor, for all the time that's spent on it, till it's hard to rear anything, even a head o' cabbage itself—m'lady, will you for God's sake leave off pulling at that hedge?"
 
She took him to see old Fenian in the paddock, and she liked the way he pulled the jumper's ears, ran his firm hand down the fetlocks.
 
"Was he a great horse?"
 
"Nearly the greatest of his day," she answered. "He never won a Grand National, but was third twice and second once. He had a great heart. No horse tried harder. The people loved him.... Kelleher, this is Mr. O'Conor, from America."
 
"From America, is it, your Ladyship? Oh, sure, they 've fine horses over there. But they............