“Then, upon my faith, O’Donahue, I believe you—so now go on.”
“I not only made love to her, but in making love to her, I got most terribly singed myself; and I felt, before I quitted her, that if I had ten thousand a-year, and she was as poor as my dear Judith was, that she should have taken her place—that’s the truth. I thought that I never could love again, and that my heart was as flinty as a pawnbroker’s; but I found out my mistake when it was too late.”
“And did she return you the compliment?”
“That I was not indifferent to her, I may without vanity believe. I had a five minutes alone with her just before we parted, and I took that opportunity of saying how much pain it was to part with her, and for once I told the truth, for I was almost choking when I said it. I’m convinced that there was sincerity in my face, and that she saw that it was there; so she replied, ‘If what you say is true, we shall meet at Saint Petersburg next winter; good-bye, I shall expect you.’”
“Well, that was as much as to say, come, at all events.”
“It was; I stammered out my determination so to do, if possible; but I felt at the time that my finances rendered it impossible—so there was an end of that affair. By my hopes of salvation, I’d not only go to Saint Petersburg, but round the whole world, and to the north pole afterwards, if I had the means only to see her once more.”
“You’re in a bad way, O’Donahue; your heart’s gone and your money too. Upon my soul, I pity you; but it’s always the case in this world. When I was a boy, the best and ripest fruit was always on the top of the wall, and out of my reach. Shall I call to-morrow, and then, if you please, I’ll introduce you to Mrs McShane?”
“I will be happy to see you and your good wife, McShane; health and happiness to you. Stop, while I ring for my little factotum to let you out.”
“By the bye, a sharp boy that, O’Donahue, with an eye as bright as a hawk. Where did you pick him up?”
“In Saint James’s Park.”