‘Fridays, we fancy, are unlucky days,’ said Kate, in a voice of easy indifference.
‘I wonder which are the lucky ones?’ said Nina, sighing. ‘They are certainly not put down in the Irish almanac. By the way, is not this a Friday?’
‘Mr. O’Shea will not call it amongst his unlucky days,’ said Kate laughingly.
‘I almost think I like your Austrian,’ said the other.
‘Only don’t call him my Austrian.’
‘Well, he was yours till you threw him off. No, don’t be angry: I am only talking in that careless slang we all use when we mean nothing, just as people employ counters instead of money at cards; but I like him: he has that easy flippancy in talk that asks for no effort to follow, and he says his little nothings nicely, and he is not too eager as to great ones, or too energetic, which you all are here. I like him.’
‘I fancied you liked the eager and enthusiastic people, and that you felt a warm interest in Donogan’s fate.’
‘Yes, I do hope they’ll not catch him. It would be too horrid to think of any one we had known being hanged! And then, poor fellow, he was very much in love.’
‘Poor fellow!’ sighed out Kate.
‘Not but it was the only gleam of sunlight in his existence; he could go away and fancy that, with Heaven knows what chances of fortune, he might have won me.’