She pressed my hand. “Oh, do, please do,” she murmured. “We really have been miserable—now and then.”
“I am never going to be content,” I assured her, “until I find a lady as charming and as amiable as you, and if ever I get her I'll take good care never to run any risk of losing her.”
It sounded well and pleased us all. The O'Kelly shook me warmly by the hand, and this time spoke his real feelings.
“Me boy,” he said, “all women are good—for somebody. But the woman that is good for yerself is better for ye than a better woman who's the best for somebody else. Ye understand?”
I said I did.
At eight o'clock precisely Mrs. Peedles arrived—as Flora MacDonald, in green velvet jacket and twelve to fifteen inches of plaid stocking. As a topic fitting the occasion we discussed the absent Mr. Peedles and the subject of deserted wives in general.
“A fine-looking man,” allowed Mrs. Peedles, “but weak—weak as water.”
The Signora agreed that unfortunately there did exist such men: 'twas pitiful but true.
“My dear,” continued Mrs. Peedles, “she wasn't even a lady.”
The Signora expressed astonishment at the deterioration in Mr. Peedles' taste thus implied.