“That’s funnier still.”

He ate in silence.  Eileen mused on the picture of the Dowager, her forefinger to heaven.

“The Royalty—­how did that go off?” she said, as he carved the chicken.

“With fireworks.  For the reception father built a new house and furnished it with old furniture.  Royalty stopped an hour and a quarter.  Oh, she was wonderful.  I mean my mother.  Copied your phrases—­see what an impression you made.”

“And what have you been doing since you came into the title?”

“Looking for you.”

“Nonsense!” She dropped her fork.  “But you knew I had people in Ireland.”

“I never knew exactly where.”

“But what put you on the track of the music-halls?”

“Nothing.  I never dreamed of looking for you there.  I just went.”  Master Harold Lee Carter’s phrase flashed back to her memory, “All the chaps go.”

“But what about the Black Hole—­I mean the works?”

“They go on,” he said.  “I just get the profits.”

“And how about your Socialism?”

“You taught me the fallacy of it.”

“I?  Well, that’s the cream of the joke.”

“Yes.  Don’t laugh at me, please.  When you came into my life, or rather when you went out of it—­yes, I am Irish—­I saw that money and station are the mere veneer of life:  the central reality is—­Love.”

Again her eyes filled with tears, but she remained silent.

“And I saw that I, the master, was really poorer than the majority of my serfs, with their wives and bairns.”

“You are a good fellow,” she murmured.  “I—­I meant to say,” she corrected herself, “what have you done with your clothes?”

“My clothes!” he echoed vaguely, looking down at his spotless shirt-front.

“Your factory clothes!  Wouldn’t it be fun to wear them at supper here?  Do you think they could turn you out?  I don’t see how, legally.  Do test the question.  Yes, do.  Please do.”  And she laid her hand on his black sleeve.  “I won’t marry you if you don’t.”

“I did think you were serious to-night, Eileen,” he said, disappointed.

“How could you think that, if you read the programme, as you say?  ’Nelly O’Neill, Serio-Comic.’ Allons, ne faites cette tete mine de hibou.  Admit the world is entirely ridiculous and give me some more champagne.”  Her eyes glittered strangely.

A clock struck twelve.

“What, midnight!” she cried, starting up.  “I must go.”

“No, no;” he took her hand.

“Yes, yes; don’t you know, at the stroke of midnight I change back to a governess.”

“Well, the magic didn’t work, for that clock’s very slow.  Sit down, please.”

“You have spoken the omen.  I remain Nelly O’Neill and drop Eileen for ever. Vogue la galere.”

“Absit omen!” He shuddered.

“Why not?  What do you offer me?  The love of one man.  But my public loves me as one man—­with a much more voluminous love—­I love it in return.  Why should I change?”