The poem
He stared at me with sad, hurt eyes, That drab, untidy man; And though my clients I despise I do the best I can To comfort them with cheerful chat; (Quite comme il faut, of course) And furnish evidence so that Their wives may claim divorce.
But as this chap sobbed out his woes I thought: How it's a shame! His wife's a bitch and so he goes And takes himself the blame. And me behaving like a heel To earn a filthy fee . . . Said I: "You've had a dirty deal." "What of yourself? said he.
And so I told him how I was A widow of the war, And doing what I did because Two sons I struggled for. As I sat knitting through the night He eyed me from the bed, And in the rosy morning light Impulsively he said:
"Through in this sordid game we play, To cheat the law we plan, i do believe you when you say You hold aloof from man; Unto the dead you have been true, And on the day I'm free, To prove how I have faith in you - Please, will you marry me?"
That's how it was. Now we are wed, And life's a list of joys. The old unhappy past is dead; He's father to my boys. And I have told him just to-day, (Though forty, I confess,) A little sister's on the way To crown our happiness.