rather a mere lump of clay punched into something resembling
the shape of a head, with a pipe in his mouth and a bit of stick in his
hand. He was pretending to work, though we both knew that it was out of
the question that he should do anything in his present frame of mind.

"I think I heard my servant tell you that I was not at home," said he.

"Yes, he did," said Mackinnon, "and would have sworn it too if we would
have let him. Come, don't pretend to be surly."

"I am very busy, Mr. Mackinnon."

"Completing your head of Mrs. Talboys, I suppose, before you start for
Naples."

"You don't mean to say that she has told you all about it?" And he
turned away from his work, and looked up into our faces with a comical
expression, half of fun and half of despair.

"Every word of it," said I. "When you want a lady to travel with you
never ask her to get up so early in winter."

"But, O'Brien, how could you be such an ass?" said Mackinnon. "As it
has turned out, there is no very great harm done. You have insulted a
respectable middle-aged woman, the mother of a family and the wife of a
general officer, and there is an end of it--unless, indeed, the general
officer should come out from England to call you to account."

"He is welcome," said O'Brien haughtily.

"No doubt, my dear fellow," said Mackinnon; "that would be a dignified
and pleasant ending to the affair. But what I want to know is this: what
would you have done if she had agreed to go?"

"He never calculated on the possibility of such a contingency," said I.

"By heavens, then, I thought she would like it," said he.

"And to oblige her you were content to sacrifice yourself," said
Mackinnon.

"Well, that was just it. What the deuce is a fellow to do when a woman
goes on in that way? She told me down there, upon the old race-course,
you know, that matrimonial bonds were made for fools and slaves. What
was I to suppose that she meant by that? But, to make all sure, I asked
her what sort of a fellow the general was. 'Dear old man,' she said,
clasping her hands together. 'He might, you know, have been my father.'
'I wish he were,' said I, 'because then you'd be free.' 'I am free,'
said she, stamping on the ground, and looking up at me so much as to say
that she cared for no one. 'Then,' said I, 'accept all that is left of
the heart of Wenceslaus O'Brien,' and I threw myself before her in her
path. 'Hand,' said I, 'I have none to give, but the blood which runs