Murphy began to eat savagely, talking to me in a jerky way as he did so. “Dead!” he said in a dazed way, with his jaws working nervously as he swallowed some bread. “Why, she was quite a young woman; she couldn’t have been thirty----” “Thirty!” echoed Carrie, in a scornful undertone. “We dined here, five years ago--you were of the party. We cooked the dinner ourselves; she thought it such fun. The soup was salt--you must remember.” His voice was so anxious that I said soothingly, “Of course I do.” “What a handsome girl she was!” he continued with sad enthusiasm. “It was the night of the Duke of York’s wedding.” “The Duke of York’s wedding?” cried irrepressible Carrie. “That is ever so long ago. We had a holiday from school. My mother went to see the illuminations and got her pocket picked.” She looked at Murphy with a new expression. He had been doing exactly the same thing five years before--only the girl was different. He must be quite old. She had not thought of that before. She had only considered that he was a gentleman. She felt depressed by the antique flavor of her company. I could see that she was thinking fervently that in future she would go straight back to Battersea. “We were a jolly party,” Murphy went on. “What a row Elizabeth made next day!” “Elizabeth?” “Married sister. Lived in Colville Gardens. Husband a parson--but a decent fellow. I used to visit them--of course they did not suspect--Adeline was clever, but she got found out like all the clever ones. There was a deuce of a row. Soon after she married Pray. Neither of them had a penny. Went and starved in the country. I could not have married her. It was out of the question altogether. She did not expect it. How fond she was of me!” He smiled, more with vanity than regret. “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.”