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The train was an hour-and-a-quarter late at Finnabeg. Sir James McClaren, alone in a first-class smoking compartment, was not surprised. He had never travelled in Ireland before, but he held a belief that time is very little accounted of west of the Shannon-He looked out of the window at the rain-swept platform.
"When are you going on?" The guard turned to the engine driver. "It's what I'm after telling you," he said, "it's Dunadea the gentleman's for." "It might be better for him," said the engine driver, "if he was to content himself with Finnabeg for this day at any rate." "Do you hear that, your honour?" said the guard. "Michael here, says it would be better for you to stay in Finnabeg."
He evidently felt that his explanation was sufficient and satisfactory. He rose to his feet and opened the door of the compartment. "I'm sorry now," he said, "if I'm causing any inconvenience to a gentleman like yourself. But what can I do? I offered to leave you behind at Finnabeg, but you wouldn't stay.
It seemed to him that every passenger except himself was leaving the train at Finnabeg. This did not surprise him much. There was only one more station, Dunadea, the terminus of the branch line on which Sir James was travelling. It lay fifteen miles further on, across a desolate stretch of bog. It was not to be supposed that many people wanted to go to Dunadea.
Sir James was very heartily in love with a girl who seemed to him to be the most beautiful and the most charming in the whole world. Next day, such was his good fortune, he was to marry her. Under the circumstances a much weaker man than Sir James would have withstood the engine driver and resisted the invitation of Mrs. Mulcahy's hotel in Finnabeg.
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