"Eileen! Explain!" he said piteously.
"It's you that ought to be explaining. I've all I can do to pick up the nasty little bits of glass."
"My brain reels. Who are you? What are you? For God's sake."
"Hush! Who are you? What are you?"
"I know what I was—your lover."
"Whose? Mine or Nelly's?"
"Good God, Eileen! You saw how anxious I was to get to you. That I was subtly drawn to Nelly is only a proof of how you were in my blood. But you're not really Nelly O'Neill. This is some stupid practical joke. Don't torture me longer."
"It tortures you that I should be Nelly O' Neill!" All the confessed sweetness of her position came up into clear consciousness: the lights, the laughter, the very smell of the smoke endeared by a thousand triumphs. How dared he speak of Nelly O'Neill as though she couldn't be touched with a pitchfork! Yes, and Bob Maper, too—her anger ricocheted to him—with his priggish notions of saving her from black bogs! And who was it that now stood over her like a fuddled accusing angel? She pulled out his letter and read viciously:—
"'A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.'"
"I was dying to rush to you—you wouldn't see me. And the Major dragged me—"