Dr. O’Grady was conscious of a note of disappointment in her voice. He felt that he had over-emphasized the simplicity of the performance. Mrs. Gregg would have preferred a longer ceremony. He did his best to make such amends as were still possible.
“Of course,” he said, “your photograph will be in all the illustrated papers afterwards, and there will be a long description of your dress in The Irish Times.”
“I’d love to do it,” said Mrs. Gregg.
“Very well, then,” said Dr. O’Grady, “we’ll consider that settled.”
Leaving Mrs. Gregg, he rode on to Major Kent’s house. The Major, like all men who are over forty years of age, who have good consciences and balances in their banks, spent his Sunday afternoons sleeping in an armchair. No one likes being awakened, either in a bedroom by a servant, in a railway carriage by a ticket collector, or on a Sunday afternoon by a friend. The Major answered Dr. O’Grady’s greeting snappishly.
“If you’ve come,” he said, “to ask me to make a speech at that meeting of yours on Tuesday, you may go straight home again, for I won’t do it.”
“I’m not such a fool,” said Dr. O’Grady pleasantly, “as to ask you to do any such thing. I know jolly well you couldn’t. Even if you could and would, we shouldn’t want you. We have Father McCormack, and Thady Gallagher, besides the American. That’s as much as any audience could stand!”
“If it isn’t that you want,” said the Major, “what is it?”
“It’s a pity you’re in such an uncommonly bad temper, Major. If you were even in your normal condition of torpid sulkiness you’d be rather pleased to hear what I’m going to tell you.”
“If you’re going to tell me that you’ve dropped that statue folly, I shall be extremely pleased.”