After dinner Owen had recourse to the evening paper, and he read it,
and every other paper in his room, advertisements and all, asking
himself what the devil had happened to Ulick. Some of his operatic
friends must have asked him to dinner. A moment after it seemed to
him that Ulick was treating his house like a hotel. "Damn him! he
might have easily sent me a telegram." At half-past ten the footman
brought in the whisky, and Owen sat sipping his drink, smoking
cigars, and wondering why Ulick had net come home for dinner; and
the clock had struck half-past eleven before Ulick's latchkey was
heard in the door.
"I hope you didn't wait dinner for me?"
"We waited a little while. Where have you been?"
"She asked me to stay to dinner."
"Oh, she asked you to stay to dinner!" Such a simple explanation of
Ulick's absence Owen hadn't thought of, and, reading his face, Ulick
hastened to tell him that after dinner they had gone to a concert.
"Well, I suppose you were right to go with her; the concert must have
been a great break in her life.... Sitting there all the evening,
writing letters, trying to get situations for drunken men, girl
mothers, philanthropy of every kind.
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