After dinner, we had kippered herring and some meat stew a
l'Irlandaise, we were sitting near the open oven. "Lent bells! I
wonder who is praying?..."
"Yes, six weeks, dear. Six weeks of perfect sincerity and mutual
trust,--it is not a little thing."
She accepted my remark without turning her face from the fire near
which we were sitting. "Six weeks," she said again.
"Do you remember the man who was playing near me in Monte Carlo the
day we met?"
"There were too many of them. Which one do you mean?"
"The tall man, Mr. Osborne--never mind trying, it does not matter, I
just happened to think of him."
"Anything identical with our six weeks of life?" I asked, and
immediately regretted my bad temper--I am getting impossible.
"Very much," she said sadly. "Very much; only under other
circumstances, other climates, other people. Not so inconsiderate."
When I looked at her my heart filled with pity. Who _is_ this woman?
I don't know her. Perhaps she has something in her heart--the very
existence of which I had oftentimes doubted. Perhaps, in her life of
adventures, she has had more hardships, more of tragedy than I,--with
all of my selfish sufferings of a man who used to be rich and
prominent, and is now humble and poor? Perhaps she has more of
self-control not to show it,--nevertheless the amount of her
bitterness of life must be the same, if not deeper, than mine?
We have been here for six weeks.
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