“Not that I mean I don't like her as it is, ye understand,” corrected himself the O'Kelly a second time. “I respect that woman--I cannot tell ye, me boy, how much I respect her. Ye don't know her. There was one morning, about a month ago. That woman--she's down at six every morning, summer and winter; we have prayers at half-past. I was a trifle late meself: it was never me strong point, as ye know, early rising. Seven o'clock struck; she didn't appear, and I thought she had overslept herself. I won't say I didn't feel pleased for the moment; it was an unworthy sentiment, but I almost wished she had. I ran up to her room. The door was open, the bedclothes folded down as she always leaves them. She came in five minutes later. She had got up at four that morning to welcome a troupe of native missionaries from East Africa on their arrival at Waterloo Station. She's a saint, that woman; I am not worthy of her.” “I shouldn't dwell too much on that phase of the subject,” I suggested. “I can't help it, me boy,” replied the O'Kelly. “I feel I am not.” “I don't for a moment say you are,” I returned; “but I shouldn't harp upon the idea. I don't think it good for you.” “I never will be,” he persisted gloomily, “never!” Evidently he was started on a dangerous train of reflection. With the idea of luring him away from it, I led the conversation to the subject of champagne. “Most people like it dry,” admitted the O'Kelly. “Meself, I have always preferred it with just a suggestion of fruitiness.” “There was a champagne,” I said, “you used to be rather fond of when we--years ago.” “I think I know the one ye mean,” said the O'Kelly. “It wasn't at all bad, considering the price.” “You don't happen to remember where you got it?” I asked. “It was in Bridge Street,” remembered the O'Kelly, “not so very far from the Circus.” “It is a pleasant evening,” I remarked; “let us take a walk.” We found the place, half wine-shop, half office. “Just the same,” commented the O'Kelly as we pushed open the door and entered. “Not altered a bit.”