She experienced a distinct feeling of gratitude towards the Albert Hall, and the Irish concert that was to be held there that evening, and for which her relatives had taken tickets. For a quarter of an hour by Miss Kezia’s watch, the "tenants" bade their landlord’s children good-bye. Three times the door was shut, three times there came bangs and thumps on it, and it was re-opened. And each time all the noise and talk began again. Later on Miss Kezia ventured forth. On meeting the O’Briens, she observed with forbearance that she trusted they would make things tidy now that their father’s tenants had gone. She went on to remark that it was strange so many of them should be in London. They were a good deal amused. They pointed out airily that they were no tenants of their father’s; that they had never seen them till that day; that they had just come across them. It was the last shock poor Miss Kezia received on that 17th of March. She was very angry, and very genuinely bewildered. She watched them go off to their concert with a sense of relief. She felt a newly developed fondness for the Albert Hall. *CHAPTER XXIX* The day after St. Patrick’s day was a bad one for them. It was a beautiful day, bright and cold; but, in the reactionary mood that had gripped them all in a great gloom, the very brightness was a thing to rail at. At the breakfast-table Miss Kezia gazed at them astonished. She was not a keen observer, but even she, with the memory of yesterday in her mind, marvelled at the sudden depression. Denis, in the hall, observed gloomily:— "Wish I’d get run over, or save a millionnaire’s life. Either’d make a break." "Millionnaires only get their lives saved in books," Nell rejoined bitterly. He kicked the hat-stand angrily. "Look here, Nell, I can’t go to that beastly bank to-day. I’m sick of it! I’ll be committing suicide, or murder, or something, if I do!" A quick little sob caught suddenly at her throat. "Oh, Denis!" she whispered. "Oh, Denis!" He smoothed out a dent he had made in his hat. He looked up at her, a humorous smile twisting his mouth. "Anyhow, I’ll be a success as an author soon," he said. "Didn’t I say all this beastly bank business was copy? Well, my books’ll be pretty morbid and sordid, won’t they?" She felt blindly for his coat; it danced before her eyes in a mist. He began to laugh. "I say, old fumble-fist, wouldn’t old Pom-Pom be rich while I was murdering him? I can see him—’Excuse me, Mr. O’Brien, but you really are going to work in an unnecessarily rough manner.’" He dived an arm into the coat she held out for him. "Nell—think I shall ever want to bring in a realistic murder into a book? If so, now’s the time to get it." "You’re late. Don’t dawdle." "Bet I’d get to the corner before you even if I gave you the steps in!" "Not you!"