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."

As in all probability barely twelve months had elapsed since his last
visit, the fact in itself was not surprising. Clearly the O'Kelly had
been calculating time rather by sensation. I ordered a bottle; and we
sat down. Myself, being prejudiced against the brand, I called for a
glass of claret. The O'Kelly finished the bottle. I was glad to notice
my ruse had been successful. The virtue of that wine had not departed
from it. With every glass the O'Kelly became morally more elevated.
He left the place, determined that he would be worthy of Mrs. O'Kelly.
Walking down the Embankment, he asserted his determination of buying an
alarm-clock that very evening. At the corner of Westminster Bridge he
became suddenly absorbed in his own thoughts. Looking to discover the
cause of his silence, I saw that his eyes were resting on a poster
representing a charming lady standing on one leg upon a wire; below
her--at some distance--appeared the peaks of mountains; the artist
had even caught the likeness. I cursed the luck that had directed our
footsteps, but the next moment, lacking experience, was inclined to be
reassured.

"Me dear Paul," said