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Creditors gave quarter no longer, and Mrs. O'Keeffe found herself reduced to a modest red-gabled farmhouse, with nothing saved from the crash save that part of her dowry which was invested in trustees for the education of her boys.
The dramatic possibilities of the interview with Colonel Doherty were too agitating and too numerous. This time the marionette-play needed writing. Who should receive him when he called? Eileen O'Keeffe or Nelly O'Neill? Either possibility offered exquisite comedy.
She sat down and scribbled him a letter hastily, announcing her impending marriage, and posted it at once, so as to put herself beyond temptation to draw back. Then she dashed to her mother's room and sobbed out, "Dear heart, I consent to be martyred." "What?" said Mrs. O'Keeffe, opening her eyes. "I consent to be married," Eileen corrected hastily. "Do you mean to Mr. O'Flanagan?" Mrs.
With Georgia O'Keeffe one takes a far jump into volcanic crateral ethers, and sees the world of a woman turned inside out and gaping with deep open eyes and fixed mouth at the rather trivial world of living people. "I wish people were all trees and I think I could enjoy them then," says Georgia O'Keeffe.
"I suppose you never had a drink of champagne in your life afore you come here," said Mrs. Maper, beamingly. And she indicated the port glass. "No, no, Lucy, don't play pranks on a stranger," her husband put in tactfully. "It's this glass, Miss O'Keeffe." "Oh, thank you!" Eileen gushed. "And this is what? Sherry?" "No, port," replied Mr. Maper, scarcely able to repress a wink.
Would you be prepared to walk in upon them with me on your arm and to say, 'Mother, father, Miss O'Keeffe has done me the honour of consenting to be my wife'?" With her warm hand still in his, how could he hesitate? "Oh, Eileen, if you'd only let me!" The imagination of the tableau was only less tempting to Eileen. It was procurable she had only to move her little finger, or rather not to move it.
Eileen recalled this conversation a few nights later, when she met Master Harold Lee Carter outside the door at midnight with a rival latch-key. "Been to a theatre, Miss O'Keeffe?" asked her whilom pupil. "No; have you?" "Well, not exactly a theatre!" "Why, what do you mean?" "Sort of half-and-half place, you know."
It was strange to think that in another hour Nelly O'Neill's career would be over. It seemed like murdering her. Yes, Eileen O'Keeffe would be her murderess. Well, why not murder what lay between one and happiness? As she waited at the wings, just before going on, while the orchestra played her opening bars, she glanced diagonally at the packed stalls, and her heart stood still.
When in liquor there was nothing the O'Keeffe might not do except pay off his mortgages. "He looked like an elephant when he put his trousers on wrong you know elephants have their knees the wrong way," Eileen once told the public in a patter-song. She did not tell the public it was her father, but like a true artist she learned in suffering what she taught in song.
More like a book than ever. I've read it all lots of times." "Oh, Eil Miss O'Keeffe you are very cruel." Eileen smiled. "I am not I'm very kind I threw you back into the water." He gasped, as though out of it again. "Do you mean I am not grown enough?" She flushed and improvised on his theme. "Not quite that. You hooked yourself, as you threatened to do. But suppose I had landed you.
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