'That's right, old woman, give us a song. She knows the game,' answered another.
Raising his big hat from his head, Dick wiped his face, and as if divining his extreme despair, Kate left off singing and dancing, and the procession proceeded in quiet past several different wine-shops. It was not until they came to Short's she declared she was dying of thirst and must have a drink. Dick forbade the barman to serve her, and brought upon himself the most shocking abuse. Knowing that he would be sure to meet a crowd of his 'pals' at the Gaiety bar, he used every endeavour to persuade her to cross the street and get out of the sun.
'Don't bother me with your sun,' she exclaimed surlily; and then, as if struck by the meaning of the word, she said, 'But it wasn't a son, it was a daughter; don't you remember?'
'Oh, Kate! how can you speak so?'
'Speak so? I say it was a daughter, and she died; and you said it was my fault, as you say everything is my fault, you beast! you venomous beast! Yes, she did die. It was a pity; I could have loved her.'
At this moment Dick felt a heavy hand clapped on his shoulder, and turning round he saw a pal of his.
'What, Dick, my boy! A drunken chorus lady; trying to get her home? Always up to some charitable action.'
'No; she's my wife.'
'I beg your pardon, old chap; you know I didn't mean it;' and the man disappeared into the bar-room.
'Yes, I'm his wife,' Kate shrieked after him. 'I got that much right out of him at least; and I played the Serpolette in the Cloches.'