He liked talking. He said one thing could make him happy. He wanted concert tickets. He wanted to hear The Indian Desert Song. He wanted to hear music from the grand operas. La Tosca. Carmen. La Traviata. Songs rich people heard Madame Maria Toulinguet sing at the College Hall. He would learn the words and sing them on George Street. He would make people dance. Lettie wondered how he knew of such things. She saw a book on his table. It was called Lost Angel of a Ruined Paradise.

She had just started with St. Vincent de Paul. She did not know they told women not to go to men's houses alone. It did not cross her mind that he might think she was courting him. She did not know old people had young feelings. She was a married women of thirty-five, and he was in his eighties. But he did think that. She had to stop going.

But when she told the Society about Mr. O'Neill, they went to see him. They could see things Lettie had not seen. They did not see him dreaming of The Indian Desert Song. They did not see him reading his book in the dark. All they could see was the soup pot.

Lettie never looked in the pot but they did. They said all that was in it was water, and potato peels and gristle he had collected from rubbish heaps on George Street.

They tried to convince him to go to the Poor House. He grabbed his bed post and would not let go. They had to come back three times. The last time they brought the police. They said it should have been done long ago. They said he was starving. They said he had caused his own suffering. He never did agree to go to the Poor House. They forced him.