“It is impossible,” said the O'Kelly, finishing and putting down his glass, “to give ye any idea, Kelver, how we have hated each other.”
“How we have quarrelled!” said the Signora. “Tell him, dear, how we have quarrelled.”
“All day long and half the night,” concluded the O'Kelly.
“Fought,” added the Signora. “You see, Mr. Kelver, people in—in our position always do. If it had been otherwise, if—if everything had been proper, then of course we should have loved each other. As it is, it has been a cat and dog existence. Hasn't it been a cat and dog existence, Willie?”
“It's been just hell upon earth,” murmured the O'Kelly, with his eyes fixed gloomily upon the fire-stove ornament. Deadly in earnest though they both were, I could not repress a laugh, their excellent intention was so obvious. The Signora burst into tears.
“He doesn't believe us,” she wailed.
“Me dear,” replied the O'Kelly, throwing up his part with promptness and satisfaction, “how could ye expect it? How could he believe that any man could look at ye and hate ye?”
“It's all my fault,” cried the little woman; “I am such a wicked creature. I cannot even be miserable when I am doing wrong. A decent woman in my place would have been wretched and unhappy, and made everybody about her wretched and unhappy, and so have set a good example and have been a warning. I don't seem to have any conscience, and I do try.” The poor little lady was sobbing her heart out.
When not shy I could be sensible, and of the O'Kelly and the Signora one could be no more shy than of a pair of robin redbreasts. Besides, I was really fond of them; they had been very good to me.
“Dear Miss Beltoni,” I answered, “I am going to take warning by you both.”