THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
"I never thought of that," she replied, listlessly.
Together they went down to the main deck. Their cabins were on opposite sides of the ship.
"Good night, Mr. Grogan," she said as she turned into her corridor.
We are eternally diving into the crowds for our Bayards, our Jeanne d'Arcs, and all the while our elbows are rubbing theirs.
"Goodnight."
As he repeated this empty phrase he pondered over the lack of desire on his part to sweep her up into his arms. Where was that fire he had so often read about? One thing was certain: as he lifted himself into his berth he vowed never again to read a novel with a woman in it.
He rose the next morning in time to reach the dining-room before the doors closed. He was very much astonished to find that his appetite was as normal as ever. Nothing seemed to work out according to schedule. All the people he had ever heard speak on the subject adhered to the supposition that when a person was in love that person lost his or her appetite. At the old boarding-house this was one of the set table jests. "You're not eating anything to-night, Mr. Haberdasher. In love?" How they all would "guy" the object of this solicitude!
Very remote that boarding-house seemed just now, with its shop-girls and warehouse-clerks and their sensible views of life, their dogged pluck, their amazing economies. To address one as "Mister" or "Miss" was considered to be the
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