This one was
given to me by an Irishman, who said the curse of Moreen Dhu would be
upon me if I gave it away."
"But who is Moreen Dhu? I never heard of her."
"You mustn't ask me; I'm not a bit an intelligent woman. People always
get sick of me if they see me two days running."
"I doubt very much if that is true. If it were you wouldn't say it."
"Why not? I shouldn't have thought of saying it if it weren't true."
Next evening at dinner I noticed that she was dressed more carefully
than usual; she wore a cream-coloured gown with a cerise waistband and
a cerise bow at the side of her neck. I noticed, too, that she talked
less; she seemed preoccupied. And after dinner she seemed anxious; I
could not help thinking that she wished her mamma away, and was
searching for an excuse to send her to bed.
"Mamma, dear, won't you play us the 'Impassionata'?"
"But, Milly dear, you know quite well that I can't play it."
Mamma was nevertheless persuaded to play not only the "Impassionata"
but her entire repertoire. She was not allowed to leave the piano, and
had begun to play Sydney Smith when the door opened, and a man's face
appeared for a second. Remembering her interest in men, I said:
"Did you see that man? What a nice, fresh-looking young man!"
She put her finger on her lip, and wrote on a piece of paper:
"Not a word.
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