“You couldn’t marry her, of course,” I echoed, just for the sake of saying something. “She wouldn’t expect it.”
“She said that when she died she’d let me know,” Murphy went on, looking a little scared. He was superstitious, like all Irishmen. “It was in Colville Square, the night before her wedding. She crept out after dinner. I can see her now in her light gown with her big arms bare to the elbow and a thin chain round her neck. I remember that we stayed out a long time, walking round and round the railings. It was so late that I couldn’t get a cab back to the Inn and had to walk all the way. She looked so queer. She said she’d——”
“Haunt you,” I finished, sick of his maunderings. “Well, she made sure of poor Pray. I’m sorry for that fellow. He put in the notice, of course—for you to see. She did the most that was possible in these practical days.”
He did not seem to hear me.
“Dead!” he went on, in a monologue sort of way, while Carrie, her fork halfway to her mouth and her elbows on the table, stared at him scornfully. “Her eyes! Gray, Irish eyes. She was an Irish girl—the Mahoneys of Roscommon. You remember the dinner? She sat where you are now—facing the cupboard.”
A long, clear note came from the set over the way, with the gay rattle of piano keys beneath quick fingers.
“How well that girl of Martin’s sings!” I said irrelevantly.
“I saw her once afterward. She was with her husband; it must have been Pray, a long-faced, badly dressed chap. I was with Bob Piety, at the Aquarium. I suppose they had come up from the country, determined on amusement; married people have their moments of ennui. They looked out of place. Adeline was so changed that I was not sure of her. Her good looks were gone and her mouth was harsh. She looked at me; I looked at her. I turned to Bob and said in a loud voice:
“‘Auntie!’
“That used to be my pet name for her. She turned to her husband and returned very clearly: