“Age,” said the O'Kelly, “is a matter of feeling. Kelver, may ye never be as old as I am feeling now.”
“As we are feeling,” corrected the Signora. “Kelver,” said the O'Kelly, pouring out a third glass of champagne, “we want ye to promise us something.”
“It will make us both happier,” added the Signora.
“That ye will take warning,” continued the O'Kelly, “by our wretched example. Paul, in this world there is only one path to possible happiness. The path of strict—” he paused.
“Propriety,” suggested the Signora.
“Of strict propriety,” agreed the O'Kelly. “Deviate from it,” continued the O'Kelly, impressively, “and what is the result?”
“Unutterable misery,” supplied the Signora.
“Ye think we two have been happy here together,” said the O'Kelly.
I replied that such was the conclusion to which observation had directed me.
“We tried to appear so,” explained the Signora; “it was merely on the outside. In reality all the time we hated each other. Tell him, Willie, dear, how we have hated each other.”