“I ought to,” admitted the Signora. “I always mean to, until I see him. Then I don't seem able to say anything—not anything I ought to.”
“Ye do say it,” contradicted the O'Kelly. “Ye're an angel, only I won't listen to ye.”
“I don't say it as if I meant it,” persisted the Signora. “It's evident I don't.”
“I still think it a pity,” I said, “someone does not explain to Mrs. O'Kelly that a divorce would be the truer kindness.”
“It is difficult to decide,” argued the Signora. “If ever you should want to leave me—”
“Me darling!” exclaimed the O'Kelly.
“But you may,” insisted the Signora. “Something may happen to help you, to show you how wicked it all is. I shall be glad then to think that you will go back to her. Because she is a good woman, Willie, you know she is.”
“She's a saint,” agreed Willie.
At the Obelisk I shook hands with them, and alone pursued my way towards Fleet Street.
The next friend whose acquaintance I renewed was Dan. He occupied chambers in the Temple, and one evening a week or two after the 'Ortensia marriage, I called upon him. Nothing in his manner of greeting me suggested the necessity of explanation. Dan never demanded anything of his friends beyond their need of him. Shaking hands with me, he pushed me down into the easy-chair, and standing with his back to the fire, filled and lighted his pipe.