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38
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who just came in, and walks down the aisle to the piano.
“ ‘I’d love to play it,’ says he, examining it back and front — ‘where’s the handle?’
“Ah, those were the days!” Miss O’Neill sighed. “Plenty of turmoil and twelve-and-six for salary. That’s what I got then, and what he got, too.”
“Twenty-five shillings I got,” Mr. Sinclair protested.
“Twelve-and-six! Don’t be a snob. You may be worth your hundreds of pounds now, but twelve-andsix, Arthur, is what you got and what you earned in those old days near fifteen years ago.”
“Twenty-five shillings I got and not a penny less. And have you noticed what pretty eyes she has?” said Mr. Sinclair by way of concluding the argument.
I had. And her vivid gray eyes, like her acting, like many of her half-finished electrical gestures, reminded me of Mrs. Fiske — whom Miss O’Neill has never seen.
“Mrs. Fiske might be your sister,” I was going to say, when it occurred to me that Sarah Algood is her sister; so instead I asked her why she had not taken the Algood name for the stage.
“A large brain wave possessed me to use my mother’s name and not trade on my sister’s reputation. It was ages before a soul knew we were related. People would talk to her from the depths of their heart of Molly O’Neill, and to me of Sally Algood — and these talks we’d exchange every night in the bed.”
We were talking of the music that lies in Irish drama Irishly spoken, wdien Mr. Sinclair was reminded of a day in Southport, England.
“I and three others of the company were put up