It came about in this wise. His friends, having discovered him, had pointed out to him again his duty. The Signora--a really excellent little woman so far as intention was concerned--had seconded their endeavours, with the result that on a certain evening in autumn we of the house assembled all of us on the first floor to support them on the occasion of their final--so we all deemed it then--leave-taking. For eleven o'clock two four-wheeled cabs had been ordered, one to transport the O'Kelly with his belongings to Hampstead and respectability; in the other the Signora would journey sorrowfully to the Tower Basin, there to join a circus company sailing for the Continent. I knocked at the door some quarter of an hour before the appointed hour of the party. I fancy the idea had originated with the Signora. “Dear Willie has something to say to you,” she had informed me that morning on the stairs. “He has taken a sincere liking to you, and it is something very important.” They were sitting one each side the fireplace, looking very serious; a bottle of the sobering champagne stood upon the table. The Signora rose and kissed me gravely on the brow; the O'Kelly laid both hands upon my shoulders, and sat me down on a chair between them. “Mr. Kelver,” said the Signora, “you are very young.” I hinted--it was one of those rare occasions upon which gallantry can be combined with truth--that I found myself in company. The Signora smiled sadly, and shook her head. “Age,” said the O'Kelly, “is a matter of feeling. Kelver, may ye never be as old as I am feeling now.” “As _we_ are feeling,” corrected the Signora. “Kelver,” said the O'Kelly, pouring out a third glass of champagne, “we want ye to promise us something.” “It will make us both happier,” added the Signora. “That ye will take warning,” continued the O'Kelly, “by our wretched example. Paul, in this world there is only one path to possible happiness. The path of strict--” he paused. “Propriety,” suggested the Signora. “Of strict propriety,” agreed the O'Kelly. “Deviate from it,” continued the O'Kelly, impressively, “and what is the result?” “Unutterable misery,” supplied the Signora. “Ye think we two have been happy here together,” said the O'Kelly. I replied that such was the conclusion to which observation had directed me. “We tried to appear so,” explained the Signora; “it was merely on the outside. In reality all the time we hated each other. Tell him, Willie, dear, how we have hated each other.” “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.