“Fought,” added the Signora. “You see, Mr. Kelver, people in--in our position always do. If it had been otherwise, if--if everything had been proper, then of course we should have loved each other. As it is, it has been a cat and dog existence. Hasn't it been a cat and dog existence, Willie?” “It's been just hell upon earth,” murmured the O'Kelly, with his eyes fixed gloomily upon the fire-stove ornament. Deadly in earnest though they both were, I could not repress a laugh, their excellent intention was so obvious. The Signora burst into tears. “He doesn't believe us,” she wailed. “Me dear,” replied the O'Kelly, throwing up his part with promptness and satisfaction, “how could ye expect it? How could he believe that any man could look at ye and hate ye?” “It's all my fault,” cried the little woman; “I am such a wicked creature. I cannot even be miserable when I am doing wrong. A decent woman in my place would have been wretched and unhappy, and made everybody about her wretched and unhappy, and so have set a good example and have been a warning. I don't seem to have any conscience, and I do try.” The poor little lady was sobbing her heart out. When not shy I could be sensible, and of the O'Kelly and the Signora one could be no more shy than of a pair of robin redbreasts. Besides, I was really fond of them; they had been very good to me. “Dear Miss Beltoni,” I answered, “I am going to take warning by you both.” 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. “I won't go so far as to say we never had a difference,” continued Mrs. Peedles, whose object appeared to be an impartial statement of the whole case. “There may have been incompatability of temperament, as they say. Myself, I have always been of a playful disposition--frivolous, some might call me.”