"Yes. Don't laugh at me, please. When you came into my life, or rather when you went out of it—yes, I am Irish—I saw that money and station are the mere veneer of life: the central reality is—Love."
Again her eyes filled with tears, but she remained silent.
"And I saw that I, the master, was really poorer than the majority of my serfs, with their wives and bairns."
"You are a good fellow," she murmured. "I—I meant to say," she corrected herself, "what have you done with your clothes?"
"My clothes!" he echoed vaguely, looking down at his spotless shirt-front.
"Your factory clothes! Wouldn't it be fun to wear them at supper here? Do you think they could turn you out? I don't see how, legally. Do test the question. Yes, do. Please do." And she laid her hand on his black sleeve. "I won't marry you if you don't."
"I did think you were serious to-night, Eileen," he said, disappointed.
"How could you think that, if you read the programme, as you say? 'Nelly O'Neill, Serio-Comic.' Allons, ne faites cette tête mine de hibou. Admit the world is entirely ridiculous and give me some more champagne." Her eyes glittered strangely.
A clock struck twelve.
"What, midnight!" she cried, starting up. "I must go."