“Sure now, who’d have thought it!” as she looked at the fragments, delighted Alexander beyond measure.  The chief dish was a stewed rabbit, smothered in onions; after it appeared an immense gooseberry tart, the pastry hardly to be attacked with an ordinary table knife.  Compromising for the nonce with his teetotalism as well as his vegetarianism—­not to pain the hosts—­Piers drank bottled ale.  It was an uproarious meal.  The little servant, whilst in attendance, took her full share of the conversation, and joined shrilly in the laughter.  Mrs. Otway had arrayed herself in a scarlet gown, and her hair was picturesquely braided.  She ceased not from hospitable cares, and set a brave example in eating and drinking.  Yet she was never vulgar, as an untaught London woman in her circumstances would have been, and many a delightful phrase fell from her lips in the mellow language of County Wexford.

When the remnants of dinner were removed, a bottle of Irish whisky came forth, with the due appurtenances.  Then it was that Alexander, with pride in his eyes, made known Bridget’s one accomplishment; she had a voice, and would presently use it for their guest’s delectation.  She was trying to learn the piano, as yet with small success; but Alexander who had studied music concurrently with medicine, and to better result, was able to furnish accompaniments.  The concert began, and Piers, who had felt misgivings, was most agreeably surprised.  Not only had Bridget a voice, a very sweet mezzo-contralto, but she sang with remarkable feeling.  More than once the listener had much ado to keep tears out of his eyes; they were at his throat all the time, and his heart swelled with the passionate emotion which had lurked there to the ruin of his peace.  But music, the blessed, the peacemaker (for music called martial is but a blustering bastard), changed his torments to ecstasy; his love, however hopeless, became an inestimable possession, and he seemed to himself capable of such great, such noble things as had never entered into the thought of man.

The crying of her baby obliged Bridget to withdraw for a little.  Alexander, who had already made a gallant inroad on the whisky bottle, looked almost fiercely at his brother, and exclaimed: 

“What do you day to that?  Isn’t that a woman?  Isn’t that a wife to be proud of?”

Piers replied with enthusiasm.

“Not long ago,” proceeded the other, “when we were really hard up, she wanted me to let her try to earn money with her voice.  She could, you know!  But do you think I’d allow it?  Sooner I’ll fry the soles of my boots and make believe they’re beefsteak!—­Look at her, and remember her when you’re seeking for a wife of your own.  Never mind if you have to wait; it’s worth it.  When it comes to wives, the best or none!  That’s my motto.”

In his emotional mood, Piers had an impulse.  He bent forward and asked quietly: 

“Are things all right now?  About money, I mean.”