DUBLINERS

By James Joyce

CONTENTS

 The Sisters An Encounter Araby Eveline After the Race Two Gallants The Boarding House A Little Cloud Counterparts Clay A Painful Case Ivy Day in the Committee Room A Mother Grace The Dead

DUBLINERS

THE SISTERS

THERE was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke. Nightafter night I had passed the house (it was vacation time) and studiedthe lighted square of window: and night after night I had found itlighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. If he was dead, I thought, I would see the reflection of candles on the darkened blind for I knewthat two candles must be set at the head of a corpse. He had often saidto me: "I am not long for this world, " and I had thought his words idle. Now I knew they were true. Every night as I gazed up at the windowI said softly to myself the word paralysis. It had always soundedstrangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the wordsimony in the Catechism. But now it sounded to me like the name of somemaleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, and yet I longed tobe nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work. 

Old Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking, when I came downstairsto supper. While my aunt was ladling out my stirabout he said, as ifreturning to some former remark of his:

"No, I wouldn't say he was exactly. . . But there was something queer. . . There was something uncanny about him. I'll tell you my opinion. . . . "

He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his opinion in hismind. Tiresome old fool! When we knew him first he used to be ratherinteresting, talking of faints and worms; but I soon grew tired of himand his endless stories about the distillery. 

"I have my own theory about it, " he said. "I think it was one ofthose. . . Peculiar cases. . . . But it's hard to say. . . . "

He began to puff again at his pipe without giving us his theory. Myuncle saw me staring and said to me:

"Well, so your old friend is gone, you'll be sorry to hear. "

"Who?" said I. 

"Father Flynn. "

"Is he dead?"

"Mr. Cotter here has just told us. He was passing by the house. "

I knew that I was under observation so I continued eating as if the newshad not interested me. My uncle explained to old Cotter. 

"The youngster and he were great friends. The old chap taught him agreat deal, mind you; and they say he had a great wish for him. "

"God have mercy on his soul, " said my aunt piously. 

Old Cotter looked at me for a while. I felt that his little beady blackeyes were examining me but I would not satisfy him by looking up from myplate. He returned to his pipe and finally spat rudely into the grate. 

"I wouldn't like children of mine, " he said, "to have too much to say toa man like that. "

"How do you mean, Mr. Cotter?" asked my aunt. 

"What I mean is, " said old Cotter, "it's bad for children. My idea is:let a young lad run about and play with young lads of his own age andnot be. . . Am I right, Jack?"

"That's my principle, too, " said my uncle. "Let him learn to box hiscorner. That's what I'm always saying to that Rosicrucian there: takeexercise. Why, when I was a nipper every morning of my life I had a coldbath, winter and summer. And that's what stands to me now. Educationis all very fine and large. . . . Mr. Cotter might take a pick of that legmutton, " he added to my aunt. 

"No, no, not for me, " said old Cotter. 

My aunt brought the dish from the safe and put it on the table. 

"But why do you think it's not good for children, Mr. Cotter?" sheasked. 

"It's bad for children, " said old Cotter, "because their mind are soimpressionable. When children see things like that, you know, it has aneffect. . . . "

I crammed my mouth with stirabout for fear I might give utterance to myanger. Tiresome old red-nosed imbecile!

It was late when I fell asleep. Though I was angry with old Cotter foralluding to me as a child, I puzzled my head to extract meaning from hisunfinished sentences. In the dark of my room I imagined that I saw againthe heavy grey face of the paralytic. I drew the blankets over my headand tried to think of Christmas. But the grey face still followed me. Itmurmured, and I understood that it desired to confess something. I feltmy soul receding into some pleasant and vicious region; and there againI found it waiting for me. It began to confess to me in a murmuringvoice and I wondered why it smiled continually and why the lips were somoist with spittle. But then I remembered that it had died of paralysisand I felt that I too was smiling feebly as if to absolve the simoniacof his sin. 

The next morning after breakfast I went down to look at the little housein Great Britain Street. It was an unassuming shop, registered underthe vague name of Drapery. The drapery consisted mainly of children'sbootees and umbrellas; and on ordinary days a notice used to hang in thewindow, saying: Umbrellas Re-covered. No notice was visible now forthe shutters were up. A crape bouquet was tied to the doorknocker withribbon. Two poor women and a telegram boy were reading the card pinnedon the crape. I also approached and read:

July 1st, 1895 The Rev. James Flynn (formerly of S. Catherine's Church, Meath Street), aged sixty-five years. R. I. P. 

The reading of the card persuaded me that he was dead and I wasdisturbed to find myself at check. Had he not been dead I would havegone into the little dark room behind the shop to find him sitting inhis arm-chair by the fire, nearly smothered in his great-coat. Perhapsmy aunt would have given me a packet of High Toast for him and thispresent would have roused him from his stupefied doze. It was always Iwho emptied the packet into his black snuff-box for his hands trembledtoo much to allow him to do this without spilling half the snuff aboutthe floor. Even as he raised his large trembling hand to his nose littleclouds of smoke dribbled through his fingers over the front of his coat. It may have been these constant showers of snuff which gave his ancientpriestly garments their green faded look for the red handkerchief, blackened, as it always was, with the snuff-stains of a week, with whichhe tried to brush away the fallen grains, was quite inefficacious. 

I wished to go in and look at him but I had not the courage to knock. Iwalked away slowly along the sunny side of the street, reading all thetheatrical advertisements in the shop-windows as I went. I found itstrange that neither I nor the day seemed in a mourning mood and I felteven annoyed at discovering in myself a sensation of freedom as if I hadbeen freed from something by his death. I wondered at this for, as myuncle had said the night before, he had taught me a great deal. He hadstudied in the Irish college in Rome and he had taught me to pronounceLatin properly. He had told me stories about the catacombs and aboutNapoleon Bonaparte, and he had explained to me the meaning of thedifferent ceremonies of the Mass and of the different vestments wornby the priest. Sometimes he had amused himself by putting difficultquestions to me, asking me what one should do in certain circumstancesor whether such and such sins were mortal or venial or onlyimperfections. His questions showed me how complex and mysterious werecertain institutions of the Church which I had always regarded asthe simplest acts. The duties of the priest towards the Eucharist andtowards the secrecy of the confessional seemed so grave to me that Iwondered how anybody had ever found in himself the courage to undertakethem; and I was not surprised when he told me that the fathers of theChurch had written books as thick as the Post Office Directory and asclosely printed as the law notices in the newspaper, elucidating allthese intricate questions. Often when I thought of this I could makeno answer or only a very foolish and halting one upon which he usedto smile and nod his head twice or thrice. Sometimes he used to put methrough the responses of the Mass which he had made me learn by heart;and, as I pattered, he used to smile pensively and nod his head, now andthen pushing huge pinches of snuff up each nostril alternately. When hesmiled he used to uncover his big discoloured teeth and let his tonguelie upon his lower lip--a habit which had made me feel uneasy in thebeginning of our acquaintance before I knew him well. 

As I walked along in the sun I remembered old Cotter's words and triedto remember what had happened afterwards in the dream. I rememberedthat I had noticed long velvet curtains and a swinging lamp of antiquefashion. I felt that I had been very far away, in some land where thecustoms were strange--in Persia, I thought. . . . But I could not rememberthe end of the dream. 

In the evening my aunt took me with her to visit the house of mourning. It was after sunset; but the window-panes of the houses that lookedto the west reflected the tawny gold of a great bank of clouds. Nanniereceived us in the hall; and, as it would have been unseemly to haveshouted at her, my aunt shook hands with her for all. The old womanpointed upwards interrogatively and, on my aunt's nodding, proceeded totoil up the narrow staircase before us, her bowed head being scarcelyabove the level of the banister-rail. At the first landing she stoppedand beckoned us forward encouragingly towards the open door of thedead-room. My aunt went in and the old woman, seeing that I hesitated toenter, began to beckon to me again repeatedly with her hand. 

I went in on tiptoe. The room through the lace end of the blind wassuffused with dusky golden light amid which the candles looked like palethin flames. He had been coffined. Nannie gave the lead and we threeknelt down at the foot of the bed. I pretended to pray but I could notgather my thoughts because the old woman's mutterings distracted me. Inoticed how clumsily her skirt was hooked at the back and how the heelsof her cloth boots were trodden down all to one side. The fancy came tome that the old priest was smiling as he lay there in his coffin. 

But no. When we rose and went up to the head of the bed I saw that hewas not smiling. There he lay, solemn and copious, vested as for thealtar, his large hands loosely retaining a chalice. His face was verytruculent, grey and massive, with black cavernous nostrils and circledby a scanty white fur. There was a heavy odour in the room--the flowers. 

We crossed ourselves and came away. In the little room downstairs wefound Eliza seated in his arm-chair in state. I groped my way towards myusual chair in the corner while Nannie went to the sideboard and broughtout a decanter of sherry and some wine-glasses. She set these on thetable and invited us to take a little glass of wine. Then, at hersister's bidding, she filled out the sherry into the glasses and passedthem to us. She pressed me to take some cream crackers also but Ideclined because I thought I would make too much noise eating them. Sheseemed to be somewhat disappointed at my refusal and went over quietlyto the sofa where she sat down behind her sister. No one spoke: we allgazed at the empty fireplace. 

My aunt waited until Eliza sighed and then said:

"Ah, well, he's gone to a better world. "

Eliza sighed again and bowed her head in assent. My aunt fingered thestem of her wine-glass before sipping a little. 

"Did he. . . Peacefully?" she asked. 

"Oh, quite peacefully, ma'am, " said Eliza. "You couldn't tell when thebreath went out of him. He had a beautiful death, God be praised. "

"And everything. . . ?"

"Father O'Rourke was in with him a Tuesday and anointed him and preparedhim and all. "

"He knew then?"

"He was quite resigned. "

"He looks quite resigned, " said my aunt. 

"That's what the woman we had in to wash him said. She said he justlooked as if he was asleep, he looked that peaceful and resigned. No onewould think he'd make such a beautiful corpse. "

"Yes, indeed, " said my aunt. 

She sipped a little more from her glass and said:

"Well, Miss Flynn, at any rate it must be a great comfort for you toknow that you did all you could for him. You were both very kind to him, I must say. "

Eliza smoothed her dress over her knees. 

"Ah, poor James!" she said. "God knows we done all we could, as poor aswe are--we wouldn't see him want anything while he was in it. "

Nannie had leaned her head against the sofa-pillow and seemed about tofall asleep. 

"There's poor Nannie, " said Eliza, looking at her, "she's wore out. Allthe work we had, she and me, getting in the woman to wash him and thenlaying him out and then the coffin and then arranging about the Mass inthe chapel. Only for Father O'Rourke I don't know what we'd done at all. It was him brought us all them flowers and them two candlesticks out ofthe chapel and wrote out the notice for the Freeman's General and tookcharge of all the papers for the cemetery and poor James's insurance. "

"Wasn't that good of him?" said my aunt

Eliza closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. 

"Ah, there's no friends like the old friends, " she said, "when all issaid and done, no friends that a body can trust. "

"Indeed, that's true, " said my aunt. "And I'm sure now that he's gone tohis eternal reward he won't forget you and all your kindness to him. "

"Ah, poor James!" said Eliza. "He was no great trouble to us. Youwouldn't hear him in the house any more than now. Still, I know he'sgone and all to that. . . . "

"It's when it's all over that you'll miss him, " said my aunt. 

"I know that, " said Eliza. "I won't be bringing him in his cup ofbeef-tea any me, nor you, ma'am, sending him his snuff. Ah, poor James!"

She stopped, as if she were communing with the past and then saidshrewdly:

"Mind you, I noticed there was something queer coming over him latterly. Whenever I'd bring in his soup to him there I'd find him with hisbreviary fallen to the floor, lying back in the chair and his mouthopen. "

She laid a finger against her nose and frowned: then she continued:

"But still and all he kept on saying that before the summer was overhe'd go out for a drive one fine day just to see the old house againwhere we were all born down in Irishtown and take me and Nannie withhim. If we could only get one of them new-fangled carriages that makesno noise that Father O'Rourke told him about, them with the rheumaticwheels, for the day cheap--he said, at Johnny Rush's over the way thereand drive out the three of us together of a Sunday evening. He had hismind set on that. . . . Poor James!"

"The Lord have mercy on his soul!" said my aunt. 

Eliza took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes with it. Then she putit back again in her pocket and gazed into the empty grate for some timewithout speaking. 

"He was too scrupulous always, " she said. "The duties of the priesthoodwas too much for him. And then his life was, you might say, crossed. "

"Yes, " said my aunt. "He was a disappointed man. You could see that. "

A silence took possession of the little room and, under cover of it, Iapproached the table and tasted my sherry and then returned quietly tomy chair in the comer. Eliza seemed to have fallen into a deep revery. We waited respectfully for her to break the silence: and after a longpause she said slowly:

"It was that chalice he broke. . . . That was the beginning of it. Ofcourse, they say it was all right, that it contained nothing, I mean. But still. . . . They say it was the boy's fault. But poor James was sonervous, God be merciful to him!"

"And was that it?" said my aunt. "I heard something. . . . "

Eliza nodded. 

"That affected his mind, " she said. "After that he began to mope byhimself, talking to no one and wandering about by himself. So one nighthe was wanted for to go on a call and they couldn't find him anywhere. They looked high up and low down; and still they couldn't see a sightof him anywhere. So then the clerk suggested to try the chapel. Sothen they got the keys and opened the chapel and the clerk and FatherO'Rourke and another priest that was there brought in a light for tolook for him. . . . And what do you think but there he was, sitting up byhimself in the dark in his confession-box, wide-awake and laughing-likesoftly to himself?"

She stopped suddenly as if to listen. I too listened; but there was nosound in the house: and I knew that the old priest was lying still inhis coffin as we had seen him, solemn and truculent in death, an idlechalice on his breast. 

Eliza resumed:

"Wide-awake and laughing-like to himself. . . . So then, of course, whenthey saw that, that made them think that there was something gone wrongwith him. . . . "

AN ENCOUNTER

IT WAS Joe Dillon who introduced the Wild West to us. He had a littlelibrary made up of old numbers of The Union Jack, Pluck and TheHalfpenny Marvel. Every evening after school we met in his back gardenand arranged Indian battles. He and his fat young brother Leo, theidler, held the loft of the stable while we tried to carry it by storm;or we fought a pitched battle on the grass. But, however well we fought, we never won siege or battle and all our bouts ended with Joe Dillon'swar dance of victory. His parents went to eight-o'clock mass everymorning in Gardiner Street and the peaceful odour of Mrs. Dillon wasprevalent in the hall of the house. But he played too fiercely for uswho were younger and more timid. He looked like some kind of an Indianwhen he capered round the garden, an old tea-cosy on his head, beating atin with his fist and yelling:

"Ya! yaka, yaka, yaka!"

Everyone was incredulous when it was reported that he had a vocation forthe priesthood. Nevertheless it was true. 

A spirit of unruliness diffused itself among us and, under itsinfluence, differences of culture and constitution were waived. Webanded ourselves together, some boldly, some in jest and some almost infear: and of the number of these latter, the reluctant Indians whowere afraid to seem studious or lacking in robustness, I was one. Theadventures related in the literature of the Wild West were remote frommy nature but, at least, they opened doors of escape. I liked bettersome American detective stories which were traversed from time to timeby unkempt fierce and beautiful girls. Though there was nothing wrongin these stories and though their intention was sometimes literarythey were circulated secretly at school. One day when Father Butler washearing the four pages of Roman History clumsy Leo Dillon was discoveredwith a copy of The Halfpenny Marvel. 

"This page or this page? This page Now, Dillon, up! 'Hardly had theday'. . . Go on! What day? 'Hardly had the day dawned'. . . Have you studiedit? What have you there in your pocket?"

Everyone's heart palpitated as Leo Dillon handed up the paper andeveryone assumed an innocent face. Father Butler turned over the pages, frowning. 

"What is this rubbish?" he said. "The Apache Chief! Is this what youread instead of studying your Roman History? Let me not find any moreof this wretched stuff in this college. The man who wrote it, I suppose, was some wretched fellow who writes these things for a drink. I'msurprised at boys like you, educated, reading such stuff. I couldunderstand it if you were. . . National School boys. Now, Dillon, I adviseyou strongly, get at your work or. . . "

This rebuke during the sober hours of school paled much of the glory ofthe Wild West for me and the confused puffy face of Leo Dillon awakenedone of my consciences. But when the restraining influence of the schoolwas at a distance I began to hunger again for wild sensations, for theescape which those chronicles of disorder alone seemed to offer me. Themimic warfare of the evening became at last as wearisome to me as theroutine of school in the morning because I wanted real adventures tohappen to myself. But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen topeople who remain at home: they must be sought abroad. 

The summer holidays were near at hand when I made up my mind to breakout of the weariness of school-life for one day at least. With Leo Dillonand a boy named Mahony I planned a day's miching. Each of us saved upsixpence. We were to meet at ten in the morning on the Canal Bridge. Mahony's big sister was to write an excuse for him and Leo Dillon was totell his brother to say he was sick. We arranged to go along the WharfRoad until we came to the ships, then to cross in the ferryboat and walkout to see the Pigeon House. Leo Dillon was afraid we might meet FatherButler or someone out of the college; but Mahony asked, very sensibly, what would Father Butler be doing out at the Pigeon House. We werereassured: and I brought the first stage of the plot to an end bycollecting sixpence from the other two, at the same time showing themmy own sixpence. When we were making the last arrangements on the eve wewere all vaguely excited. We shook hands, laughing, and Mahony said:

"Till tomorrow, mates!"

That night I slept badly. In the morning I was firstcomer to the bridgeas I lived nearest. I hid my books in the long grass near the ashpit atthe end of the garden where nobody ever came and hurried along the canalbank. It was a mild sunny morning in the first week of June. I sat upon the coping of the bridge admiring my frail canvas shoes which I haddiligently pipeclayed overnight and watching the docile horses pullinga tramload of business people up the hill. All the branches of the talltrees which lined the mall were gay with little light green leaves andthe sunlight slanted through them on to the water. The granite stone ofthe bridge was beginning to be warm and I began to pat it with my handsin time to an air in my head. I was very happy. 

When I had been sitting there for five or ten minutes I saw Mahony'sgrey suit approaching. He came up the hill, smiling, and clamberedup beside me on the bridge. While we were waiting he brought outthe catapult which bulged from his inner pocket and explained someimprovements which he had made in it. I asked him why he had brought itand he told me he had brought it to have some gas with the birds. Mahonyused slang freely, and spoke of Father Butler as Old Bunser. We waitedon for a quarter of an hour more but still there was no sign of LeoDillon. Mahony, at last, jumped down and said:

"Come along. I knew Fatty'd funk it. "

"And his sixpence. . . ?" I said. 

"That's forfeit, " said Mahony. "And so much the better for us--a bob anda tanner instead of a bob. "

We walked along the North Strand Road till we came to the Vitriol Worksand then turned to the right along the Wharf Road. Mahony began to playthe Indian as soon as we were out of public sight. He chased a crowdof ragged girls, brandishing his unloaded catapult and, when two raggedboys began, out of chivalry, to fling stones at us, he proposed that weshould charge them. I objected that the boys were too small and so wewalked on, the ragged troop screaming after us: "Swaddlers!Swaddlers!" thinking that we were Protestants because Mahony, who wasdark-complexioned, wore the silver badge of a cricket club in his cap. When we came to the Smoothing Iron we arranged a siege; but it was afailure because you must have at least three. We revenged ourselves onLeo Dillon by saying what a funk he was and guessing how many he wouldget at three o'clock from Mr. Ryan. 

We came then near the river. We spent a long time walking about thenoisy streets flanked by high stone walls, watching the working ofcranes and engines and often being shouted at for our immobility by thedrivers of groaning carts. It was noon when we reached the quays and asall the labourers seemed to be eating their lunches, we bought two bigcurrant buns and sat down to eat them on some metal piping beside theriver. We pleased ourselves with the spectacle of Dublin's commerce--thebarges signalled from far away by their curls of woolly smoke, the brownfishing fleet beyond Ringsend, the big white sailing-vessel which wasbeing discharged on the opposite quay. Mahony said it would be rightskit to run away to sea on one of those big ships and even I, looking atthe high masts, saw, or imagined, the geography which had been scantilydosed to me at school gradually taking substance under my eyes. Schooland home seemed to recede from us and their influences upon us seemed towane. 

We crossed the Liffey in the ferryboat, paying our toll to betransported in the company of two labourers and a little Jew with a bag. We were serious to the point of solemnity, but once during the shortvoyage our eyes met and we laughed. When we landed we watched thedischarging of the graceful threemaster which we had observed from theother quay. Some bystander said that she was a Norwegian vessel. I wentto the stern and tried to decipher the legend upon it but, failing to doso, I came back and examined the foreign sailors to see had any of themgreen eyes for I had some confused notion. . . . The sailors' eyes wereblue and grey and even black. The only sailor whose eyes could have beencalled green was a tall man who amused the crowd on the quay by callingout cheerfully every time the planks fell:

"All right! All right!"

When we were tired of this sight we wandered slowly into Ringsend. Theday had grown sultry, and in the windows of the grocers' shops mustybiscuits lay bleaching. We bought some biscuits and chocolate whichwe ate sedulously as we wandered through the squalid streets where thefamilies of the fishermen live. We could find no dairy and so we wentinto a huckster's shop and bought a bottle of raspberry lemonade each. Refreshed by this, Mahony chased a cat down a lane, but the cat escapedinto a wide field. We both felt rather tired and when we reached thefield we made at once for a sloping bank over the ridge of which wecould see the Dodder. 

It was too late and we were too tired to carry out our project ofvisiting the Pigeon House. We had to be home before four o'clock lestour adventure should be discovered. Mahony looked regretfully at hiscatapult and I had to suggest going home by train before he regainedany cheerfulness. The sun went in behind some clouds and left us to ourjaded thoughts and the crumbs of our provisions. 

There was nobody but ourselves in the field. When we had lain on thebank for some time without speaking I saw a man approaching from the farend of the field. I watched him lazily as I chewed one of those greenstems on which girls tell fortunes. He came along by the bank slowly. Hewalked with one hand upon his hip and in the other hand he held a stickwith which he tapped the turf lightly. He was shabbily dressed in a suitof greenish-black and wore what we used to call a jerry hat with a highcrown. He seemed to be fairly old for his moustache was ashen-grey. Whenhe passed at our feet he glanced up at us quickly and then continued hisway. We followed him with our eyes and saw that when he had gone on forperhaps fifty paces he turned about and began to retrace his steps. Hewalked towards us very slowly, always tapping the ground with his stick, so slowly that I thought he was looking for something in the grass. 

He stopped when he came level with us and bade us goodday. We answeredhim and he sat down beside us on the slope slowly and with great care. He began to talk of the weather, saying that it would be a very hotsummer and adding that the seasons had changed gready since he was aboy--a long time ago. He said that the happiest time of one's life wasundoubtedly one's schoolboy days and that he would give anything to beyoung again. While he expressed these sentiments which bored us a littlewe kept silent. Then he began to talk of school and of books. He askedus whether we had read the poetry of Thomas Moore or the works of SirWalter Scott and Lord Lytton. I pretended that I had read every book hementioned so that in the end he said:

"Ah, I can see you are a bookworm like myself. Now, " he added, pointingto Mahony who was regarding us with open eyes, "he is different; he goesin for games. "

He said he had all Sir Walter Scott's works and all Lord Lytton's worksat home and never tired of reading them. "Of course, " he said, "therewere some of Lord Lytton's works which boys couldn't read. " Mahony askedwhy couldn't boys read them--a question which agitated and pained mebecause I was afraid the man would think I was as stupid as Mahony. Theman, however, only smiled. I saw that he had great gaps in his mouthbetween his yellow teeth. Then he asked us which of us had the mostsweethearts. Mahony mentioned lightly that he had three totties. The manasked me how many I had. I answered that I had none. He did not believeme and said he was sure I must have one. I was silent. 

"Tell us, " said Mahony pertly to the man, "how many have you yourself?"

The man smiled as before and said that when he was our age he had lotsof sweethearts. 

"Every boy, " he said, "has a little sweetheart. "

His attitude on this point struck me as strangely liberal in a manof his age. In my heart I thought that what he said about boys andsweethearts was reasonable. But I disliked the words in his mouth and Iwondered why he shivered once or twice as if he feared something or felta sudden chill. As he proceeded I noticed that his accent was good. Hebegan to speak to us about girls, saying what nice soft hair they hadand how soft their hands were and how all girls were not so good as theyseemed to be if one only knew. There was nothing he liked, he said, somuch as looking at a nice young girl, at her nice white hands and herbeautiful soft hair. He gave me the impression that he was repeatingsomething which he had learned by heart or that, magnetised by somewords of his own speech, his mind was slowly circling round and round inthe same orbit. At times he spoke as if he were simply alluding to somefact that everybody knew, and at times he lowered his voice and spokemysteriously as if he were telling us something secret which he did notwish others to overhear. He repeated his phrases over and over again, varying them and surrounding them with his monotonous voice. I continuedto gaze towards the foot of the slope, listening to him. 

After a long while his monologue paused. He stood up slowly, sayingthat he had to leave us for a minute or so, a few minutes, and, withoutchanging the direction of my gaze, I saw him walking slowly away from ustowards the near end of the field. We remained silent when he had gone. After a silence of a few minutes I heard Mahony exclaim:

"I say! Look what he's doing!"

As I neither answered nor raised my eyes Mahony exclaimed again:

"I say. . . He's a queer old josser!"

"In case he asks us for our names, " I said "let you be Murphy and I'llbe Smith. "

We said nothing further to each other. I was still considering whetherI would go away or not when the man came back and sat down beside usagain. Hardly had he sat down when Mahony, catching sight of the catwhich had escaped him, sprang up and pursued her across the field. Theman and I watched the chase. The cat escaped once more and Mahony beganto throw stones at the wall she had escaladed. Desisting from this, hebegan to wander about the far end of the field, aimlessly. 

After an interval the man spoke to me. He said that my friend was a veryrough boy and asked did he get whipped often at school. I was going toreply indignantly that we were not National School boys to be whipped, as he called it; but I remained silent. He began to speak on the subjectof chastising boys. His mind, as if magnetised again by his speech, seemed to circle slowly round and round its new centre. He said thatwhen boys were that kind they ought to be whipped and well whipped. Whena boy was rough and unruly there was nothing would do him any good but agood sound whipping. A slap on the hand or a box on the ear was no good:what he wanted was to get a nice warm whipping. I was surprised at thissentiment and involuntarily glanced up at his face. As I did so I metthe gaze of a pair of bottle-green eyes peering at me from under atwitching forehead. I turned my eyes away again. 

The man continued his monologue. He seemed to have forgotten his recentliberalism. He said that if ever he found a boy talking to girls orhaving a girl for a sweetheart he would whip him and whip him; and thatwould teach him not to be talking to girls. And if a boy had a girlfor a sweetheart and told lies about it then he would give him sucha whipping as no boy ever got in this world. He said that there wasnothing in this world he would like so well as that. He described tome how he would whip such a boy as if he were unfolding some elaboratemystery. He would love that, he said, better than anything in thisworld; and his voice, as he led me monotonously through the mystery, grew almost affectionate and seemed to plead with me that I shouldunderstand him. 

I waited till his monologue paused again. Then I stood up abruptly. LestI should betray my agitation I delayed a few moments pretending to fixmy shoe properly and then, saying that I was obliged to go, I bade himgood-day. I went up the slope calmly but my heart was beating quicklywith fear that he would seize me by the ankles. When I reached the topof the slope I turned round and, without looking at him, called loudlyacross the field:

"Murphy!"

My voice had an accent of forced bravery in it and I was ashamed of mypaltry stratagem. I had to call the name again before Mahony saw meand hallooed in answer. How my heart beat as he came running across thefield to me! He ran as if to bring me aid. And I was penitent; for in myheart I had always despised him a little. 

ARABY

NORTH RICHMOND STREET being blind, was a quiet street except at the hourwhen the Christian Brothers' School set the boys free. An uninhabitedhouse of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from itsneighbours in a square ground The other houses of the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brownimperturbable faces. 

The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the backdrawing-room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in allthe rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with olduseless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered books, the pagesof which were curled and damp: The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The DevoutCommunicant and The Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked the last best becauseits leaves were yellow. The wild garden behind the house contained acentral apple-tree and a few straggling bushes under one of whichI found the late tenant's rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a verycharitable priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutionsand the furniture of his house to his sister. 

When the short days of winter came dusk fell before we had well eatenour dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. Thespace of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towardsit the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold airstung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in thesilent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddylanes behind the houses where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribesfrom the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens whereodours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where acoachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckledharness. When we returned to the street light from the kitchen windowshad filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner we hid inthe shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan's sistercame out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea we watchedher from our shadow peer up and down the street. We waited to seewhether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left ourshadow and walked up to Mangan's steps resignedly. She was waitingfor us, her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door. Herbrother always teased her before he obeyed and I stood by the railingslooking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body and the soft ropeof her hair tossed from side to side. 

Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I couldnot be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ranto the hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figurealways in my eye and, when we came near the point at which our waysdiverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morningafter morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood. 

Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. OnSaturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carrysome of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostledby drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, theshrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs'cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-youabout O'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our nativeland. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: Iimagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Hername sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which Imyself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could nottell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself outinto my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether Iwould ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tellher of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her wordsand gestures were like fingers running upon the wires. 

One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest haddied. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the sodden beds. Somedistant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankful that Icould see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselvesand, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms ofmy hands together until they trembled, murmuring: "O love! O love!" manytimes. 

At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I wasso confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I goingto Araby. I forgot whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendidbazaar, she said she would love to go. 

"And why can't you?" I asked. 

While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her wrist. She could not go, she said, because there would be a retreat that weekin her convent. Her brother and two other boys were fighting for theircaps and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the spikes, bowingher head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our door caughtthe white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell over one side of herdress and caught the white border of a petticoat, just visible as shestood at ease. 

"It's well for you, " she said. 

"If I go, " I said, "I will bring you something. "

What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughtsafter that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work of school. At night in my bedroom and by dayin the classroom her image came between me and the page I strove toread. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through thesilence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment overme. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My auntwas surprised and hoped it was not some Freemason affair. I answered fewquestions in class. I watched my master's face pass from amiability tosternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call mywandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the seriouswork of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemedto me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play. 

On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to thebazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for thehat-brush, and answered me curtly:

"Yes, boy, I know. "

As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie atthe window. I left the house in bad humour and walked slowly towards theschool. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart misgave me. 

When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it wasearly. I sat staring at the clock for some time and when its tickingbegan to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the staircase andgained the upper part of the house. The high cold empty gloomy roomsliberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front windowI saw my companions playing below in the street. Their cries reached meweakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at the dark house where she lived. I may have stoodthere for an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by myimagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the curved neck, atthe hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress. 

When I came downstairs again I found Mrs. Mercer sitting at the fire. She was an old garrulous woman, a pawnbroker's widow, who collectedused stamps for some pious purpose. I had to endure the gossip of thetea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour and still my uncle didnot come. Mrs. Mercer stood up to go: she was sorry she couldn't waitany longer, but it was after eight o'clock and she did not like to beout late as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began towalk up and down the room, clenching my fists. My aunt said:

"I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord. "

At nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey in the halldoor. I heard himtalking to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had receivedthe weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs. When he wasmidway through his dinner I asked him to give me the money to go to thebazaar. He had forgotten. 

"The people are in bed and after their first sleep now, " he said. 

I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically:

"Can't you give him the money and let him go? You've kept him lateenough as it is. "

My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he believed inthe old saying: "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. " He askedme where I was going and, when I had told him a second time he asked medid I know The Arab's Farewell to his Steed. When I left the kitchen hewas about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt. 

I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham Streettowards the station. The sight of the streets thronged with buyers andglaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my journey. I took myseat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. After an intolerabledelay the train moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward amongruinous house and over the twinkling river. At Westland Row Station acrowd of people pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters movedthem back, saying that it was a special train for the bazaar. I remainedalone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes the train drew up beside animprovised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw by thelighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front of mewas a large building which displayed the magical name. 

I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaarwould be closed, I passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing ashilling to a weary-looking man. I found myself in a big hall girdled athalf its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed and thegreater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognised a silence likethat which pervades a church after a service. I walked into the centreof the bazaar timidly. A few people were gathered about the stalls whichwere still open. Before a curtain, over which the words Cafe Chantantwere written in coloured lamps, two men were counting money on a salver. I listened to the fall of the coins. 

Remembering with difficulty why I had come I went over to one of thestalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered tea-sets. At thedoor of the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with two younggentlemen. I remarked their English accents and listened vaguely totheir conversation. 

"O, I never said such a thing!"

"O, but you did!"

"O, but I didn't!"

"Didn't she say that?"

"Yes. I heard her. "

"O, there's a. . . Fib!"

Observing me the young lady came over and asked me did I wish to buyanything. The tone of her voice was not encouraging; she seemed to havespoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked humbly at the great jarsthat stood like eastern guards at either side of the dark entrance tothe stall and murmured:

"No, thank you. "

The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went back tothe two young men. They began to talk of the same subject. Once or twicethe young lady glanced at me over her shoulder. 

I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to makemy interest in her wares seem the more real. Then I turned away slowlyand walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed the two pennies tofall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a voice call from oneend of the gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hallwas now completely dark. 

Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven andderided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger. 

EVELINE

SHE sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. Her headwas leaned against the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odourof dusty cretonne. She was tired. 

Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his wayhome; she heard his footsteps clacking along the concrete pavement andafterwards crunching on the cinder path before the new red houses. Onetime there used to be a field there in which they used to play everyevening with other people's children. Then a man from Belfast boughtthe field and built houses in it--not like their little brown houses butbright brick houses with shining roofs. The children of the avenue usedto play together in that field--the Devines, the Waters, the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers and sisters. Ernest, however, never played: he was too grown up. Her father used often tohunt them in out of the field with his blackthorn stick; but usuallylittle Keogh used to keep nix and call out when he saw her fathercoming. Still they seemed to have been rather happy then. Her father wasnot so bad then; and besides, her mother was alive. That was a long timeago; she and her brothers and sisters were all grown up her motherwas dead. Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the Waters had gone back toEngland. Everything changes. Now she was going to go away like theothers, to leave her home. 

Home! She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiar objectswhich she had dusted once a week for so many years, wondering where onearth all the dust came from. Perhaps she would never see again thosefamiliar objects from which she had never dreamed of being divided. And yet during all those years she had never found out the name of thepriest whose yellowing photograph hung on the wall above the brokenharmonium beside the coloured print of the promises made to BlessedMargaret Mary Alacoque. He had been a school friend of her father. Whenever he showed the photograph to a visitor her father used to passit with a casual word:

"He is in Melbourne now. "

She had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that wise? Shetried to weigh each side of the question. In her home anyway she hadshelter and food; she had those whom she had known all her life abouther. O course she had to work hard, both in the house and at business. What would they say of her in the Stores when they found out that shehad run away with a fellow? Say she was a fool, perhaps; and her placewould be filled up by advertisement. Miss Gavan would be glad. Shehad always had an edge on her, especially whenever there were peoplelistening. 

"Miss Hill, don't you see these ladies are waiting?"

"Look lively, Miss Hill, please. "

She would not cry many tears at leaving the Stores. 

But in her new home, in a distant unknown country, it would not be likethat. Then she would be married--she, Eveline. People would treat herwith respect then. She would not be treated as her mother had been. Evennow, though she was over nineteen, she sometimes felt herself in dangerof her father's violence. She knew it was that that had given her thepalpitations. When they were growing up he had never gone for her likehe used to go for Harry and Ernest, because she was a girl but latterlyhe had begun to threaten her and say what he would do to her only forher dead mother's sake. And no she had nobody to protect her. Ernest wasdead and Harry, who was in the church decorating business, was nearlyalways down somewhere in the country. Besides, the invariable squabblefor money on Saturday nights had begun to weary her unspeakably. Shealways gave her entire wages--seven shillings--and Harry always sent upwhat he could but the trouble was to get any money from her father. He said she used to squander the money, that she had no head, thathe wasn't going to give her his hard-earned money to throw about thestreets, and much more, for he was usually fairly bad on Saturday night. In the end he would give her the money and ask her had she any intentionof buying Sunday's dinner. Then she had to rush out as quickly as shecould and do her marketing, holding her black leather purse tightly inher hand as she elbowed her way through the crowds and returning homelate under her load of provisions. She had hard work to keep the housetogether and to see that the two young children who had been left to hercharge went to school regularly and got their meals regularly. It washard work--a hard life--but now that she was about to leave it she didnot find it a wholly undesirable life. 

She was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was very kind, manly, open-hearted. She was to go away with him by the night-boat tobe his wife and to live with him in Buenos Ayres where he had a homewaiting for her. How well she remembered the first time she had seenhim; he was lodging in a house on the main road where she used to visit. It seemed a few weeks ago. He was standing at the gate, his peaked cappushed back on his head and his hair tumbled forward over a face ofbronze. Then they had come to know each other. He used to meet heroutside the Stores every evening and see her home. He took her to seeThe Bohemian Girl and she felt elated as she sat in an unaccustomed partof the theatre with him. He was awfully fond of music and sang a little. People knew that they were courting and, when he sang about the lassthat loves a sailor, she always felt pleasantly confused. He used tocall her Poppens out of fun. First of all it had been an excitement forher to have a fellow and then she had begun to like him. He had tales ofdistant countries. He had started as a deck boy at a pound a month on aship of the Allan Line going out to Canada. He told her the names ofthe ships he had been on and the names of the different services. He hadsailed through the Straits of Magellan and he told her stories of theterrible Patagonians. He had fallen on his feet in Buenos Ayres, hesaid, and had come over to the old country just for a holiday. Ofcourse, her father had found out the affair and had forbidden her tohave anything to say to him. 

"I know these sailor chaps, " he said. 

One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had to meet herlover secretly. 

The evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in her lapgrew indistinct. One was to Harry; the other was to her father. Ernesthad been her favourite but she liked Harry too. Her father was becomingold lately, she noticed; he would miss her. Sometimes he could be verynice. Not long before, when she had been laid up for a day, he had readher out a ghost story and made toast for her at the fire. Another day, when their mother was alive, they had all gone for a picnic to the Hillof Howth. She remembered her father putting on her mothers bonnet tomake the children laugh. 

Her time was running out but she continued to sit by the window, leaning her head against the window curtain, inhaling the odour of dustycretonne. Down far in the avenue she could hear a street organ playing. She knew the air Strange that it should come that very night to remindher of the promise to her mother, her promise to keep the home togetheras long as she could. She remembered the last night of her mother'sillness; she was again in the close dark room at the other side of thehall and outside she heard a melancholy air of Italy. The organ-playerhad been ordered to go away and given sixpence. She remembered herfather strutting back into the sickroom saying:

"Damned Italians! coming over here!"

As she mused the pitiful vision of her mother's life laid its spell onthe very quick of her being--that life of commonplace sacrifices closingin final craziness. She trembled as she heard again her mother's voicesaying constantly with foolish insistence:

"Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!"

She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must escape!Frank would save her. He would give her life, perhaps love, too. But shewanted to live. Why should she be unhappy? She had a right to happiness. Frank would take her in his arms, fold her in his arms. He would saveher. 

She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the North Wall. Heheld her hand and she knew that he was speaking to her, saying somethingabout the passage over and over again. The station was full of soldierswith brown baggages. Through the wide doors of the sheds she caught aglimpse of the black mass of the boat, lying in beside the quay wall, with illumined portholes. She answered nothing. She felt her cheek paleand cold and, out of a maze of distress, she prayed to God to directher, to show her what was her duty. The boat blew a long mournfulwhistle into the mist. If she went, tomorrow she would be on the seawith Frank, steaming towards Buenos Ayres. Their passage had beenbooked. Could she still draw back after all he had done for her? Herdistress awoke a nausea in her body and she kept moving her lips insilent fervent prayer. 

A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand:

"Come!"

All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing herinto them: he would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the ironrailing. 

"Come!"

No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish. 

"Eveline! Evvy!"

He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shoutedat to go on but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love orfarewell or recognition. 

AFTER THE RACE

THE cars came scudding in towards Dublin, running evenly like pelletsin the groove of the Naas Road. At the crest of the hill at Inchicoresightseers had gathered in clumps to watch the cars careering homewardand through this channel of poverty and inaction the Continent sped itswealth and industry. Now and again the clumps of people raised the cheerof the gratefully oppressed. Their sympathy, however, was for the bluecars--the cars of their friends, the French. 

The French, moreover, were virtual victors. Their team had finishedsolidly; they had been placed second and third and the driver of thewinning German car was reported a Belgian. Each blue car, therefore, received a double measure of welcome as it topped the crest of the hilland each cheer of welcome was acknowledged with smiles and nods by thosein the car. In one of these trimly built cars was a party of fouryoung men whose spirits seemed to be at present well above the levelof successful Gallicism: in fact, these four young men were almosthilarious. They were Charles Segouin, the owner of the car; AndreRiviere, a young electrician of Canadian birth; a huge Hungarian namedVillona and a neatly groomed young man named Doyle. Segouin was in goodhumour because he had unexpectedly received some orders in advance (hewas about to start a motor establishment in Paris) and Riviere was ingood humour because he was to be appointed manager of the establishment;these two young men (who were cousins) were also in good humour becauseof the success of the French cars. Villona was in good humour because hehad had a very satisfactory luncheon; and besides he was an optimist bynature. The fourth member of the party, however, was too excited to begenuinely happy. 

He was about twenty-six years of age, with a soft, light brown moustacheand rather innocent-looking grey eyes. His father, who had begun life asan advanced Nationalist, had modified his views early. He had made hismoney as a butcher in Kingstown and by opening shops in Dublin and inthe suburbs he had made his money many times over. He had also beenfortunate enough to secure some of the police contracts and in the endhe had become rich enough to be alluded to in the Dublin newspapers as amerchant prince. He had sent his son to England to be educated in a bigCatholic college and had afterwards sent him to Dublin University tostudy law. Jimmy did not study very earnestly and took to bad coursesfor a while. He had money and he was popular; and he divided his timecuriously between musical and motoring circles. Then he had been sentfor a term to Cambridge to see a little life. His father, remonstrative, but covertly proud of the excess, had paid his bills and brought himhome. It was at Cambridge that he had met Segouin. They were not muchmore than acquaintances as yet but Jimmy found great pleasure in thesociety of one who had seen so much of the world and was reputed toown some of the biggest hotels in France. Such a person (as his fatheragreed) was well worth knowing, even if he had not been the charmingcompanion he was. Villona was entertaining also--a brilliantpianist--but, unfortunately, very poor. 

The car ran on merrily with its cargo of hilarious youth. The twocousins sat on the front seat; Jimmy and his Hungarian friend satbehind. Decidedly Villona was in excellent spirits; he kept up a deepbass hum of melody for miles of the road The Frenchmen flung theirlaughter and light words over their shoulders and often Jimmy hadto strain forward to catch the quick phrase. This was not altogetherpleasant for him, as he had nearly always to make a deft guess at themeaning and shout back a suitable answer in the face of a high wind. Besides Villona's humming would confuse anybody; the noise of the car, too. 

Rapid motion through space elates one; so does notoriety; so doesthe possession of money. These were three good reasons for Jimmy'sexcitement. He had been seen by many of his friends that day in thecompany of these Continentals. At the control Segouin had presented himto one of the French competitors and, in answer to his confused murmurof compliment, the swarthy face of the driver had disclosed a line ofshining white teeth. It was pleasant after that honour to return to theprofane world of spectators amid nudges and significant looks. Then asto money--he really had a great sum under his control. Segouin, perhaps, would not think it a great sum but Jimmy who, in spite of temporaryerrors, was at heart the inheritor of solid instincts knew well withwhat difficulty it had been got together. This knowledge had previouslykept his bills within the limits of reasonable recklessness, and if hehad been so conscious of the labour latent in money when there had beenquestion merely of some freak of the higher intelligence, how much moreso now when he was about to stake the greater part of his substance! Itwas a serious thing for him. 

Of course, the investment was a good one and Segouin had managed to givethe impression that it was by a favour of friendship the mite of Irishmoney was to be included in the capital of the concern. Jimmy had arespect for his father's shrewdness in business matters and in this caseit had been his father who had first suggested the investment; money tobe made in the motor business, pots of money. Moreover Segouin had theunmistakable air of wealth. Jimmy set out to translate into days' workthat lordly car in which he sat. How smoothly it ran. In what style theyhad come careering along the country roads! The journey laid a magicalfinger on the genuine pulse of life and gallantly the machinery of humannerves strove to answer the bounding courses of the swift blue animal. 

They drove down Dame Street. The street was busy with unusualtraffic, loud with the horns of motorists and the gongs of impatienttram-drivers. Near the Bank Segouin drew up and Jimmy and his friendalighted. A little knot of people collected on the footpath to payhomage to the snorting motor. The party was to dine together thatevening in Segouin's hotel and, meanwhile, Jimmy and his friend, who wasstaying with him, were to go home to dress. The car steered out slowlyfor Grafton Street while the two young men pushed their way throughthe knot of gazers. They walked northward with a curious feeling ofdisappointment in the exercise, while the city hung its pale globes oflight above them in a haze of summer evening. 

In Jimmy's house this dinner had been pronounced an occasion. A certainpride mingled with his parents' trepidation, a certain eagerness, also, to play fast and loose for the names of great foreign cities have atleast this virtue. Jimmy, too, looked very well when he was dressed and, as he stood in the hall giving a last equation to the bows of his dresstie, his father may have felt even commercially satisfied at havingsecured for his son qualities often unpurchaseable. His father, therefore, was unusually friendly with Villona and his manner expresseda real respect for foreign accomplishments; but this subtlety of hishost was probably lost upon the Hungarian, who was beginning to have asharp desire for his dinner. 

The dinner was excellent, exquisite. Segouin, Jimmy decided, had a veryrefined taste. The party was increased by a young Englishman named Routhwhom Jimmy had seen with Segouin at Cambridge. The young men supped ina snug room lit by electric candle lamps. They talked volubly and withlittle reserve. Jimmy, whose imagination was kindling, conceived thelively youth of the Frenchmen twined elegantly upon the firm frameworkof the Englishman's manner. A graceful image of his, he thought, and ajust one. He admired the dexterity with which their host directed theconversation. The five young men had various tastes and their tongueshad been loosened. Villona, with immense respect, began to discover tothe mildly surprised Englishman the beauties of the English madrigal, deploring the loss of old instruments. Riviere, not wholly ingenuously, undertook to explain to Jimmy the triumph of the French mechanicians. The resonant voice of the Hungarian was about to prevail in ridicule ofthe spurious lutes of the romantic painters when Segouin shepherded hisparty into politics. Here was congenial ground for all. Jimmy, undergenerous influences, felt the buried zeal of his father wake to lifewithin him: he aroused the torpid Routh at last. The room grew doublyhot and Segouin's task grew harder each moment: there was even dangerof personal spite. The alert host at an opportunity lifted his glassto Humanity and, when the toast had been drunk, he threw open a windowsignificantly. 

That night the city wore the mask of a capital. The five young menstrolled along Stephen's Green in a faint cloud of aromatic smoke. Theytalked loudly and gaily and their cloaks dangled from their shoulders. The people made way for them. At the corner of Grafton Street a shortfat man was putting two handsome ladies on a car in charge of anotherfat man. The car drove off and the short fat man caught sight of theparty. 

"Andre. "

"It's Farley!"

A torrent of talk followed. Farley was an American. No one knew verywell what the talk was about. Villona and Riviere were the noisiest, but all the men were excited. They got up on a car, squeezing themselvestogether amid much laughter. They drove by the crowd, blended now intosoft colours, to a music of merry bells. They took the train at WestlandRow and in a few seconds, as it seemed to Jimmy, they were walking outof Kingstown Station. The ticket-collector saluted Jimmy; he was an oldman:

"Fine night, sir!"

It was a serene summer night; the harbour lay like a darkened mirror attheir feet. They proceeded towards it with linked arms, singing CadetRoussel in chorus, stamping their feet at every:

"Ho! Ho! Hohe, vraiment!"

They got into a rowboat at the slip and made out for the American'syacht. There was to be supper, music, cards. Villona said withconviction:

"It is delightful!"

There was a yacht piano in the cabin. Villona played a waltz for Farleyand Riviere, Farley acting as cavalier and Riviere as lady. Thenan impromptu square dance, the men devising original figures. Whatmerriment! Jimmy took his part with a will; this was seeing life, atleast. Then Farley got out of breath and cried "Stop!" A man brought ina light supper, and the young men sat down to it for form's sake. Theydrank, however: it was Bohemian. They drank Ireland, England, France, Hungary, the United States of America. Jimmy made a speech, a longspeech, Villona saying: "Hear! hear!" whenever there was a pause. Therewas a great clapping of hands when he sat down. It must have been a goodspeech. Farley clapped him on the back and laughed loudly. What jovialfellows! What good company they were!

Cards! cards! The table was cleared. Villona returned quietly to hispiano and played voluntaries for them. The other men played game aftergame, flinging themselves boldly into the adventure. They drank thehealth of the Queen of Hearts and of the Queen of Diamonds. Jimmy feltobscurely the lack of an audience: the wit was flashing. Play ran veryhigh and paper began to pass. Jimmy did not know exactly who waswinning but he knew that he was losing. But it was his own fault forhe frequently mistook his cards and the other men had to calculate hisI. O. U. 's for him. They were devils of fellows but he wished they wouldstop: it was getting late. Someone gave the toast of the yacht The Belleof Newport and then someone proposed one great game for a finish. 

The piano had stopped; Villona must have gone up on deck. It was aterrible game. They stopped just before the end of it to drink forluck. Jimmy understood that the game lay between Routh and Segouin. Whatexcitement! Jimmy was excited too; he would lose, of course. How muchhad he written away? The men rose to their feet to play the last tricks. Talking and gesticulating. Routh won. The cabin shook with the youngmen's cheering and the cards were bundled together. They began then togather in what they had won. Farley and Jimmy were the heaviest losers. 

He knew that he would regret in the morning but at present he was gladof the rest, glad of the dark stupor that would cover up his folly. Heleaned his elbows on the table and rested his head between his hands, counting the beats of his temples. The cabin door opened and he saw theHungarian standing in a shaft of grey light:

"Daybreak, gentlemen!"

TWO GALLANTS

THE grey warm evening of August had descended upon the city and a mildwarm air, a memory of summer, circulated in the streets. The streets, shuttered for the repose of Sunday, swarmed with a gaily coloured crowd. Like illumined pearls the lamps shone from the summits of their tallpoles upon the living texture below which, changing shape and hueunceasingly, sent up into the warm grey evening air an unchangingunceasing murmur. 

Two young men came down the hill of Rutland Square. On of them was justbringing a long monologue to a close. The other, who walked on the vergeof the path and was at times obliged to step on to the road, owing tohis companion's rudeness, wore an amused listening face. He was squatand ruddy. A yachting cap was shoved far back from his forehead and thenarrative to which he listened made constant waves of expression breakforth over his face from the corners of his nose and eyes and mouth. Little jets of wheezing laughter followed one another out of hisconvulsed body. His eyes, twinkling with cunning enjoyment, glanced atevery moment towards his companion's face. Once or twice he rearrangedthe light waterproof which he had slung over one shoulder in toreadorfashion. His breeches, his white rubber shoes and his jauntily slungwaterproof expressed youth. But his figure fell into rotundity at thewaist, his hair was scant and grey and his face, when the waves ofexpression had passed over it, had a ravaged look. 

When he was quite sure that the narrative had ended he laughednoiselessly for fully half a minute. Then he said:

"Well!. . . That takes the biscuit!"

His voice seemed winnowed of vigour; and to enforce his words he addedwith humour:

"That takes the solitary, unique, and, if I may so call it, recherchebiscuit!"

He became serious and silent when he had said this. His tongue was tiredfor he had been talking all the afternoon in a public-house in DorsetStreet. Most people considered Lenehan a leech but, in spite of thisreputation, his adroitness and eloquence had always prevented hisfriends from forming any general policy against him. He had a bravemanner of coming up to a party of them in a bar and of holding himselfnimbly at the borders of the company until he was included in a round. He was a sporting vagrant armed with a vast stock of stories, limericksand riddles. He was insensitive to all kinds of discourtesy. No oneknew how he achieved the stern task of living, but his name was vaguelyassociated with racing tissues. 

"And where did you pick her up, Corley?" he asked. 

Corley ran his tongue swiftly along his upper lip. 

"One night, man, " he said, "I was going along Dame Street and I spotteda fine tart under Waterhouse's clock and said good-night, you know. Sowe went for a walk round by the canal and she told me she was a slaveyin a house in Baggot Street. I put my arm round her and squeezed her abit that night. Then next Sunday, man, I met her by appointment. We ventout to Donnybrook and I brought her into a field there. She told me sheused to go with a dairyman. . . . It was fine, man. Cigarettes every nightshe'd bring me and paying the tram out and back. And one night shebrought me two bloody fine cigars--O, the real cheese, you know, thatthe old fellow used to smoke. . . . I was afraid, man, she'd get in thefamily way. But she's up to the dodge. "

"Maybe she thinks you'll marry her, " said Lenehan. 

"I told her I was out of a job, " said Corley. "I told her I was inPim's. She doesn't know my name. I was too hairy to tell her that. Butshe thinks I'm a bit of class, you know. "

Lenehan laughed again, noiselessly. 

"Of all the good ones ever I heard, " he said, "that emphatically takesthe biscuit. "

Corley's stride acknowledged the compliment. The swing of his burly bodymade his friend execute a few light skips from the path to the roadwayand back again. Corley was the son of an inspector of police and he hadinherited his father's frame and gut. He walked with his hands by hissides, holding himself erect and swaying his head from side to side. Hishead was large, globular and oily; it sweated in all weathers; and hislarge round hat, set upon it sideways, looked like a bulb which hadgrown out of another. He always stared straight before him as if he wereon parade and, when he wished to gaze after someone in the street, itwas necessary for him to move his body from the hips. At present he wasabout town. Whenever any job was vacant a friend was always ready togive him the hard word. He was often to be seen walking with policemenin plain clothes, talking earnestly. He knew the inner side of allaffairs and was fond of delivering final judgments. He spoke withoutlistening to the speech of his companions. His conversation was mainlyabout himself what he had said to such a person and what such a personhad said to him and what he had said to settle the matter. When hereported these dialogues he aspirated the first letter of his name afterthe manner of Florentines. 

Lenehan offered his friend a cigarette. As the two young men walked onthrough the crowd Corley occasionally turned to smile at some of thepassing girls but Lenehan's gaze was fixed on the large faint mooncircled with a double halo. He watched earnestly the passing of the greyweb of twilight across its face. At length he said:

"Well. . . Tell me, Corley, I suppose you'll be able to pull it off allright, eh?"

Corley closed one eye expressively as an answer. 

"Is she game for that?" asked Lenehan dubiously. "You can never knowwomen. "

"She's all right, " said Corley. "I know the way to get around her, man. She's a bit gone on me. "

"You're what I call a gay Lothario, " said Lenehan. "And the proper kindof a Lothario, too!"

A shade of mockery relieved the servility of his manner. To save himselfhe had the habit of leaving his flattery open to the interpretation ofraillery. But Corley had not a subtle mind. 

"There's nothing to touch a good slavey, " he affirmed. "Take my tip forit. "

"By one who has tried them all, " said Lenehan. 

"First I used to go with girls, you know, " said Corley, unbosoming;"girls off the South Circular. I used to take them out, man, on thetram somewhere and pay the tram or take them to a band or a play at thetheatre or buy them chocolate and sweets or something that way. I usedto spend money on them right enough, " he added, in a convincing tone, asif he was conscious of being disbelieved. 

But Lenehan could well believe it; he nodded gravely. 

"I know that game, " he said, "and it's a mug's game. "

"And damn the thing I ever got out of it, " said Corley. 

"Ditto here, " said Lenehan. 

"Only off of one of them, " said Corley. 

He moistened his upper lip by running his tongue along it. Therecollection brightened his eyes. He too gazed at the pale disc of themoon, now nearly veiled, and seemed to meditate. 

"She was. . . A bit of all right, " he said regretfully. 

He was silent again. Then he added:

"She's on the turf now. I saw her driving down Earl Street one nightwith two fellows with her on a car. "

"I suppose that's your doing, " said Lenehan. 

"There was others at her before me, " said Corley philosophically. 

This time Lenehan was inclined to disbelieve. He shook his head to andfro and smiled. 

"You know you can't kid me, Corley, " he said. 

"Honest to God!" said Corley. "Didn't she tell me herself?"

Lenehan made a tragic gesture. 

"Base betrayer!" he said. 

As they passed along the railings of Trinity College, Lenehan skippedout into the road and peered up at the clock. 

"Twenty after, " he said. 

"Time enough, " said Corley. "She'll be there all right. I always let herwait a bit. "

Lenehan laughed quietly. 

"Ecod! Corley, you know how to take them, " he said. 

"I'm up to all their little tricks, " Corley confessed. 

"But tell me, " said Lenehan again, "are you sure you can bring it offall right? You know it's a ticklish job. They're damn close on thatpoint. Eh?. . . What?"

His bright, small eyes searched his companion's face for reassurance. Corley swung his head to and fro as if to toss aside an insistentinsect, and his brows gathered. 

"I'll pull it off, " he said. "Leave it to me, can't you?"

Lenehan said no more. He did not wish to ruffle his friend's temper, tobe sent to the devil and told that his advice was not wanted. A littletact was necessary. But Corley's brow was soon smooth again. Histhoughts were running another way. 

"She's a fine decent tart, " he said, with appreciation; "that's what sheis. "

They walked along Nassau Street and then turned into Kildare Street. Notfar from the porch of the club a harpist stood in the roadway, playingto a little ring of listeners. He plucked at the wires heedlessly, glancing quickly from time to time at the face of each new-comer andfrom time to time, wearily also, at the sky. His harp, too, heedlessthat her coverings had fallen about her knees, seemed weary alike of theeyes of strangers and of her master's hands. One hand played in thebass the melody of Silent, O Moyle, while the other hand careered in thetreble after each group of notes. The notes of the air sounded deep andfull. 

The two young men walked up the street without speaking, the mournfulmusic following them. When they reached Stephen's Green they crossed theroad. Here the noise of trams, the lights and the crowd released themfrom their silence. 

"There she is!" said Corley. 

At the corner of Hume Street a young woman was standing. She wore a bluedress and a white sailor hat. She stood on the curbstone, swinging asunshade in one hand. Lenehan grew lively. 

"Let's have a look at her, Corley, " he said. 

Corley glanced sideways at his friend and an unpleasant grin appeared onhis face. 

"Are you trying to get inside me?" he asked. 

"Damn it!" said Lenehan boldly, "I don't want an introduction. All Iwant is to have a look at her. I'm not going to eat her. "

"O. . . A look at her?" said Corley, more amiably. "Well. . . I'll tell youwhat. I'll go over and talk to her and you can pass by. "

"Right!" said Lenehan. 

Corley had already thrown one leg over the chains when Lenehan calledout:

"And after? Where will we meet?"

"Half ten, " answered Corley, bringing over his other leg. 

"Where?"

"Corner of Merrion Street. We'll be coming back. "

"Work it all right now, " said Lenehan in farewell. 

Corley did not answer. He sauntered across the road swaying his headfrom side to side. His bulk, his easy pace, and the solid sound of hisboots had something of the conqueror in them. He approached the youngwoman and, without saluting, began at once to converse with her. Sheswung her umbrella more quickly and executed half turns on her heels. Once or twice when he spoke to her at close quarters she laughed andbent her head. 

Lenehan observed them for a few minutes. Then he walked rapidly alongbeside the chains at some distance and crossed the road obliquely. As heapproached Hume Street corner he found the air heavily scented and hiseyes made a swift anxious scrutiny of the young woman's appearance. Shehad her Sunday finery on. Her blue serge skirt was held at the waist bya belt of black leather. The great silver buckle of her belt seemed todepress the centre of her body, catching the light stuff of her whiteblouse like a clip. She wore a short black jacket with mother-of-pearlbuttons and a ragged black boa. The ends of her tulle collarette hadbeen carefully disordered and a big bunch of red flowers was pinnedin her bosom stems upwards. Lenehan's eyes noted approvingly her stoutshort muscular body. Rank rude health glowed in her face, on her fat redcheeks and in her unabashed blue eyes. Her features were blunt. She hadbroad nostrils, a straggling mouth which lay open in a contented leer, and two projecting front teeth. As he passed Lenehan took off his capand, after about ten seconds, Corley returned a salute to the air. Thishe did by raising his hand vaguely and pensively changing the angle ofposition of his hat. 

Lenehan walked as far as the Shelbourne Hotel where he halted andwaited. After waiting for a little time he saw them coming towards himand, when they turned to the right, he followed them, stepping lightlyin his white shoes, down one side of Merrion Square. As he walked onslowly, timing his pace to theirs, he watched Corley's head which turnedat every moment towards the young woman's face like a big ball revolvingon a pivot. He kept the pair in view until he had seen them climbing thestairs of the Donnybrook tram; then he turned about and went back theway he had come. 

Now that he was alone his face looked older. His gaiety seemed toforsake him and, as he came by the railings of the Duke's Lawn, heallowed his hand to run along them. The air which the harpist had playedbegan to control his movements His softly padded feet played the melodywhile his fingers swept a scale of variations idly along the railingsafter each group of notes. 

He walked listlessly round Stephen's Green and then down Grafton Street. Though his eyes took note of many elements of the crowd through whichhe passed they did so morosely. He found trivial all that was meant tocharm him and did not answer the glances which invited him to be bold. He knew that he would have to speak a great deal, to invent and to amuseand his brain and throat were too dry for such a task. The problem ofhow he could pass the hours till he met Corley again troubled him alittle. He could think of no way of passing them but to keep on walking. He turned to the left when he came to the corner of Rutland Square andfelt more at ease in the dark quiet street, the sombre look of whichsuited his mood. He paused at last before the window of a poor-lookingshop over which the words Refreshment Bar were printed in white letters. On the glass of the window were two flying inscriptions: Ginger Beer andGinger Ale. A cut ham was exposed on a great blue dish while near iton a plate lay a segment of very light plum-pudding. He eyed this foodearnestly for some time and then, after glancing warily up and down thestreet, went into the shop quickly. 

He was hungry for, except some biscuits which he had asked two grudgingcurates to bring him, he had eaten nothing since breakfast-time. Hesat down at an uncovered wooden table opposite two work-girls and amechanic. A slatternly girl waited on him. 

"How much is a plate of peas?" he asked. 

"Three halfpence, sir, " said the girl. 

"Bring me a plate of peas, " he said, "and a bottle of ginger beer. "

He spoke roughly in order to belie his air of gentility for his entryhad been followed by a pause of talk. His face was heated. To appearnatural he pushed his cap back on his head and planted his elbows on thetable. The mechanic and the two work-girls examined him point by pointbefore resuming their conversation in a subdued voice. The girl broughthim a plate of grocer's hot peas, seasoned with pepper and vinegar, afork and his ginger beer. He ate his food greedily and found it so goodthat he made a note of the shop mentally. When he had eaten all the peashe sipped his ginger beer and sat for some time thinking of Corley'sadventure. In his imagination he beheld the pair of lovers walking alongsome dark road; he heard Corley's voice in deep energetic gallantriesand saw again the leer of the young woman's mouth. This vision madehim feel keenly his own poverty of purse and spirit. He was tiredof knocking about, of pulling the devil by the tail, of shifts andintrigues. He would be thirty-one in November. Would he never get a goodjob? Would he never have a home of his own? He thought how pleasant itwould be to have a warm fire to sit by and a good dinner to sit down to. He had walked the streets long enough with friends and with girls. Heknew what those friends were worth: he knew the girls too. Experiencehad embittered his heart against the world. But all hope had not lefthim. He felt better after having eaten than he had felt before, lessweary of his life, less vanquished in spirit. He might yet be able tosettle down in some snug corner and live happily if he could only comeacross some good simple-minded girl with a little of the ready. 

He paid twopence halfpenny to the slatternly girl and went out of theshop to begin his wandering again. He went into Capel Street and walkedalong towards the City Hall. Then he turned into Dame Street. At thecorner of George's Street he met two friends of his and stopped toconverse with them. He was glad that he could rest from all his walking. His friends asked him had he seen Corley and what was the latest. Hereplied that he had spent the day with Corley. His friends talkedvery little. They looked vacantly after some figures in the crowd andsometimes made a critical remark. One said that he had seen Mac an hourbefore in Westmoreland Street. At this Lenehan said that he had beenwith Mac the night before in Egan's. The young man who had seen Macin Westmoreland Street asked was it true that Mac had won a bit overa billiard match. Lenehan did not know: he said that Holohan had stoodthem drinks in Egan's. 

He left his friends at a quarter to ten and went up George's Street. He turned to the left at the City Markets and walked on into GraftonStreet. The crowd of girls and young men had thinned and on his wayup the street he heard many groups and couples bidding one anothergood-night. He went as far as the clock of the College of Surgeons: itwas on the stroke of ten. He set off briskly along the northern sideof the Green hurrying for fear Corley should return too soon. When hereached the corner of Merrion Street he took his stand in the shadow ofa lamp and brought out one of the cigarettes which he had reserved andlit it. He leaned against the lamp-post and kept his gaze fixed on thepart from which he expected to see Corley and the young woman return. 

His mind became active again. He wondered had Corley managed itsuccessfully. He wondered if he had asked her yet or if he would leaveit to the last. He suffered all the pangs and thrills of his friend'ssituation as well as those of his own. But the memory of Corley's slowlyrevolving head calmed him somewhat: he was sure Corley would pull it offall right. All at once the idea struck him that perhaps Corley had seenher home by another way and given him the slip. His eyes searched thestreet: there was no sign of them. Yet it was surely half-an-hour sincehe had seen the clock of the College of Surgeons. Would Corley doa thing like that? He lit his last cigarette and began to smoke itnervously. He strained his eyes as each tram stopped at the far cornerof the square. They must have gone home by another way. The paper of hiscigarette broke and he flung it into the road with a curse. 

Suddenly he saw them coming towards him. He started with delight andkeeping close to his lamp-post tried to read the result in their walk. They were walking quickly, the young woman taking quick short steps, while Corley kept beside her with his long stride. They did not seem tobe speaking. An intimation of the result pricked him like the point of asharp instrument. He knew Corley would fail; he knew it was no go. 

They turned down Baggot Street and he followed them at once, taking theother footpath. When they stopped he stopped too. They talked for a fewmoments and then the young woman went down the steps into the area ofa house. Corley remained standing at the edge of the path, a littledistance from the front steps. Some minutes passed. Then the hall-doorwas opened slowly and cautiously. A woman came running down the frontsteps and coughed. Corley turned and went towards her. His broad figurehid hers from view for a few seconds and then she reappeared runningup the steps. The door closed on her and Corley began to walk swiftlytowards Stephen's Green. 

Lenehan hurried on in the same direction. Some drops of light rain fell. He took them as a warning and, glancing back towards the house which theyoung woman had entered to see that he was not observed, he ran eagerlyacross the road. Anxiety and his swift run made him pant. He called out:

"Hallo, Corley!"

Corley turned his head to see who had called him, and then continuedwalking as before. Lenehan ran after him, settling the waterproof on hisshoulders with one hand. 

"Hallo, Corley!" he cried again. 

He came level with his friend and looked keenly in his face. He couldsee nothing there. 

"Well?" he said. "Did it come off?"

They had reached the corner of Ely Place. Still without answering, Corley swerved to the left and went up the side street. His featureswere composed in stern calm. Lenehan kept up with his friend, breathinguneasily. He was baffled and a note of menace pierced through his voice. 

"Can't you tell us?" he said. "Did you try her?"

Corley halted at the first lamp and stared grimly before him. Thenwith a grave gesture he extended a hand towards the light and, smiling, opened it slowly to the gaze of his disciple. A small gold coin shone inthe palm. 

THE BOARDING HOUSE

MRS. MOONEY was a butcher's daughter. She was a woman who was quiteable to keep things to herself: a determined woman. She had married herfather's foreman and opened a butcher's shop near Spring Gardens. But assoon as his father-in-law was dead Mr. Mooney began to go to the devil. He drank, plundered the till, ran headlong into debt. It was no usemaking him take the pledge: he was sure to break out again a few daysafter. By fighting his wife in the presence of customers and by buyingbad meat he ruined his business. One night he went for his wife with thecleaver and she had to sleep a neighbour's house. 

After that they lived apart. She went to the priest and got a separationfrom him with care of the children. She would give him neither moneynor food nor house-room; and so he was obliged to enlist himself as asheriff's man. He was a shabby stooped little drunkard with a white faceand a white moustache white eyebrows, pencilled above his little eyes, which were veined and raw; and all day long he sat in the bailiff'sroom, waiting to be put on a job. Mrs. Mooney, who had taken whatremained of her money out of the butcher business and set up a boardinghouse in Hardwicke Street, was a big imposing woman. Her house had afloating population made up of tourists from Liverpool and the Isleof Man and, occasionally, artistes from the music halls. Its residentpopulation was made up of clerks from the city. She governed the housecunningly and firmly, knew when to give credit, when to be stern andwhen to let things pass. All the resident young men spoke of her as TheMadam. 

Mrs. Mooney's young men paid fifteen shillings a week for board andlodgings (beer or stout at dinner excluded). They shared in commontastes and occupations and for this reason they were very chummy withone another. They discussed with one another the chances of favouritesand outsiders. Jack Mooney, the Madam's son, who was clerk to acommission agent in Fleet Street, had the reputation of being a hardcase. He was fond of using soldiers' obscenities: usually he came homein the small hours. When he met his friends he had always a good oneto tell them and he was always sure to be on to a good thing-that is tosay, a likely horse or a likely artiste. He was also handy with the mitsand sang comic songs. On Sunday nights there would often be a reunion inMrs. Mooney's front drawing-room. The music-hall artistes would oblige;and Sheridan played waltzes and polkas and vamped accompaniments. PollyMooney, the Madam's daughter, would also sing. She sang:

 I'm a. . . Naughty girl. You needn't sham: You know I am. 

Polly was a slim girl of nineteen; she had light soft hair and a smallfull mouth. Her eyes, which were grey with a shade of green throughthem, had a habit of glancing upwards when she spoke with anyone, whichmade her look like a little perverse madonna. Mrs. Mooney had firstsent her daughter to be a typist in a corn-factor's office but, as adisreputable sheriff's man used to come every other day to the office, asking to be allowed to say a word to his daughter, she had taken herdaughter home again and set her to do housework. As Polly was verylively the intention was to give her the run of the young men. Besidesyoung men like to feel that there is a young woman not very far away. Polly, of course, flirted with the young men but Mrs. Mooney, who was ashrewd judge, knew that the young men were only passing the time away:none of them meant business. Things went on so for a long time and Mrs. Mooney began to think of sending Polly back to typewriting when shenoticed that something was going on between Polly and one of the youngmen. She watched the pair and kept her own counsel. 

Polly knew that she was being watched, but still her mother's persistentsilence could not be misunderstood. There had been no open complicitybetween mother and daughter, no open understanding but, though peoplein the house began to talk of the affair, still Mrs. Mooney did notintervene. Polly began to grow a little strange in her manner and theyoung man was evidently perturbed. At last, when she judged it to be theright moment, Mrs. Mooney intervened. She dealt with moral problems as acleaver deals with meat: and in this case she had made up her mind. 

It was a bright Sunday morning of early summer, promising heat, but witha fresh breeze blowing. All the windows of the boarding house were openand the lace curtains ballooned gently towards the street beneath theraised sashes. The belfry of George's Church sent out constant peals andworshippers, singly or in groups, traversed the little circus beforethe church, revealing their purpose by their self-contained demeanourno less than by the little volumes in their gloved hands. Breakfastwas over in the boarding house and the table of the breakfast-room wascovered with plates on which lay yellow streaks of eggs with morselsof bacon-fat and bacon-rind. Mrs. Mooney sat in the straw arm-chairand watched the servant Mary remove the breakfast things. She mad Marycollect the crusts and pieces of broken bread to help to make Tuesday'sbread-pudding. When the table was cleared, the broken bread collected, the sugar and butter safe under lock and key, she began to reconstructthe interview which she had had the night before with Polly. Things wereas she had suspected: she had been frank in her questions and Polly hadbeen frank in her answers. Both had been somewhat awkward, of course. She had been made awkward by her not wishing to receive the news in toocavalier a fashion or to seem to have connived and Polly had beenmade awkward not merely because allusions of that kind always made herawkward but also because she did not wish it to be thought that inher wise innocence she had divined the intention behind her mother'stolerance. 

Mrs. Mooney glanced instinctively at the little gilt clock on themantelpiece as soon as she had become aware through her revery that thebells of George's Church had stopped ringing. It was seventeen minutespast eleven: she would have lots of time to have the matter out with Mr. Doran and then catch short twelve at Marlborough Street. She was sureshe would win. To begin with she had all the weight of social opinionon her side: she was an outraged mother. She had allowed him to livebeneath her roof, assuming that he was a man of honour and he had simplyabused her hospitality. He was thirty-four or thirty-five years of age, so that youth could not be pleaded as his excuse; nor could ignorancebe his excuse since he was a man who had seen something of the world. Hehad simply taken advantage of Polly's youth and inexperience: that wasevident. The question was: What reparation would he make?

There must be reparation made in such case. It is all very well forthe man: he can go his ways as if nothing had happened, having had hismoment of pleasure, but the girl has to bear the brunt. Some motherswould be content to patch up such an affair for a sum of money; she hadknown cases of it. But she would not do so. For her only one reparationcould make up for the loss of her daughter's honour: marriage. 

She counted all her cards again before sending Mary up to Doran's roomto say that she wished to speak with him. She felt sure she would win. He was a serious young man, not rakish or loud-voiced like the others. If it had been Mr. Sheridan or Mr. Meade or Bantam Lyons her task wouldhave been much harder. She did not think he would face publicity. Allthe lodgers in the house knew something of the affair; details had beeninvented by some. Besides, he had been employed for thirteen years in agreat Catholic wine-merchant's office and publicity would mean for him, perhaps, the loss of his job. Whereas if he agreed all might be well. She knew he had a good screw for one thing and she suspected he had abit of stuff put by. 

Nearly the half-hour! She stood up and surveyed herself in thepier-glass. The decisive expression of her great florid face satisfiedher and she thought of some mothers she knew who could not get theirdaughters off their hands. 

Mr. Doran was very anxious indeed this Sunday morning. He had made twoattempts to shave but his hand had been so unsteady that he had beenobliged to desist. Three days' reddish beard fringed his jaws and everytwo or three minutes a mist gathered on his glasses so that he hadto take them off and polish them with his pocket-handkerchief. Therecollection of his confession of the night before was a cause of acutepain to him; the priest had drawn out every ridiculous detail of theaffair and in the end had so magnified his sin that he was almostthankful at being afforded a loophole of reparation. The harm was done. What could he do now but marry her or run away? He could not brazen itout. The affair would be sure to be talked of and his employer wouldbe certain to hear of it. Dublin is such a small city: everyone knowseveryone else's business. He felt his heart leap warmly in his throat ashe heard in his excited imagination old Mr. Leonard calling out in hisrasping voice: "Send Mr. Doran here, please. "

All his long years of service gone for nothing! All his industry anddiligence thrown away! As a young man he had sown his wild oats, ofcourse; he had boasted of his free-thinking and denied the existence ofGod to his companions in public-houses. But that was all passed and donewith. . . Nearly. He still bought a copy of Reynolds's Newspaper everyweek but he attended to his religious duties and for nine-tenths of theyear lived a regular life. He had money enough to settle down on; it wasnot that. But the family would look down on her. First of all therewas her disreputable father and then her mother's boarding house wasbeginning to get a certain fame. He had a notion that he was being had. He could imagine his friends talking of the affair and laughing. She wasa little vulgar; some times she said "I seen" and "If I had've known. "But what would grammar matter if he really loved her? He could not makeup his mind whether to like her or despise her for what she had done. Ofcourse he had done it too. His instinct urged him to remain free, not tomarry. Once you are married you are done for, it said. 

While he was sitting helplessly on the side of the bed in shirt andtrousers she tapped lightly at his door and entered. She told him all, that she had made a clean breast of it to her mother and that her motherwould speak with him that morning. She cried and threw her arms roundhis neck, saying:

"O Bob! Bob! What am I to do? What am I to do at all?"

She would put an end to herself, she said. 

He comforted her feebly, telling her not to cry, that it would be allright, never fear. He felt against his shirt the agitation of her bosom. 

It was not altogether his fault that it had happened. He rememberedwell, with the curious patient memory of the celibate, the first casualcaresses her dress, her breath, her fingers had given him. Then late onenight as he was undressing for she had tapped at his door, timidly. Shewanted to relight her candle at his for hers had been blown out by agust. It was her bath night. She wore a loose open combing-jacket ofprinted flannel. Her white instep shone in the opening of her furryslippers and the blood glowed warmly behind her perfumed skin. From herhands and wrists too as she lit and steadied her candle a faint perfumearose. 

On nights when he came in very late it was she who warmed up his dinner. He scarcely knew what he was eating feeling her beside him alone, atnight, in the sleeping house. And her thoughtfulness! If the night wasanyway cold or wet or windy there was sure to be a little tumbler ofpunch ready for him. Perhaps they could be happy together. . . . 

They used to go upstairs together on tiptoe, each with a candle, and onthe third landing exchange reluctant goodnights. They used to kiss. Heremembered well her eyes, the touch of her hand and his delirium. . . . 

But delirium passes. He echoed her phrase, applying it to himself: "Whatam I to do?" The instinct of the celibate warned him to hold back. Butthe sin was there; even his sense of honour told him that reparationmust be made for such a sin. 

While he was sitting with her on the side of the bed Mary came to thedoor and said that the missus wanted to see him in the parlour. He stoodup to put on his coat and waistcoat, more helpless than ever. When hewas dressed he went over to her to comfort her. It would be all right, never fear. He left her crying on the bed and moaning softly: "O myGod!"

Going down the stairs his glasses became so dimmed with moisture thathe had to take them off and polish them. He longed to ascend through theroof and fly away to another country where he would never hear againof his trouble, and yet a force pushed him downstairs step by step. The implacable faces of his employer and of the Madam stared upon hisdiscomfiture. On the last flight of stairs he passed Jack Mooney whowas coming up from the pantry nursing two bottles of Bass. They salutedcoldly; and the lover's eyes rested for a second or two on a thickbulldog face and a pair of thick short arms. When he reached the foot ofthe staircase he glanced up and saw Jack regarding him from the door ofthe return-room. 

Suddenly he remembered the night when one of the music-hall artistes, a little blond Londoner, had made a rather free allusion to Polly. The reunion had been almost broken up on account of Jack's violence. Everyone tried to quiet him. The music-hall artiste, a little paler thanusual, kept smiling and saying that there was no harm meant: but Jackkept shouting at him that if any fellow tried that sort of a game onwith his sister he'd bloody well put his teeth down his throat, so hewould. 

Polly sat for a little time on the side of the bed, crying. Then shedried her eyes and went over to the looking-glass. She dipped the end ofthe towel in the water-jug and refreshed her eyes with the cool water. She looked at herself in profile and readjusted a hairpin above her ear. Then she went back to the bed again and sat at the foot. She regardedthe pillows for a long time and the sight of them awakened in her mindsecret, amiable memories. She rested the nape of her neck against thecool iron bed-rail and fell into a reverie. There was no longer anyperturbation visible on her face. 

She waited on patiently, almost cheerfully, without alarm, her memoriesgradually giving place to hopes and visions of the future. Her hopes andvisions were so intricate that she no longer saw the white pillowson which her gaze was fixed or remembered that she was waiting foranything. 

At last she heard her mother calling. She started to her feet and ran tothe banisters. 

"Polly! Polly!"

"Yes, mamma?"

"Come down, dear. Mr. Doran wants to speak to you. "

Then she remembered what she had been waiting for. 

A LITTLE CLOUD

EIGHT years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall andwished him godspeed. Gallaher had got on. You could tell that at onceby his travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit, and fearless accent. Fewfellows had talents like his and fewer still could remain unspoiledby such success. Gallaher's heart was in the right place and he haddeserved to win. It was something to have a friend like that. 

Little Chandler's thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of his meetingwith Gallaher, of Gallaher's invitation and of the great city Londonwhere Gallaher lived. He was called Little Chandler because, thoughhe was but slightly under the average stature, he gave one the ideaof being a little man. His hands were white and small, his frame wasfragile, his voice was quiet and his manners were refined. He took thegreatest care of his fair silken hair and moustache and used perfumediscreetly on his handkerchief. The half-moons of his nails were perfectand when he smiled you caught a glimpse of a row of childish whiteteeth. 

As he sat at his desk in the King's Inns he thought what changes thoseeight years had brought. The friend whom he had known under a shabby andnecessitous guise had become a brilliant figure on the London Press. Heturned often from his tiresome writing to gaze out of the office window. The glow of a late autumn sunset covered the grass plots and walks. Itcast a shower of kindly golden dust on the untidy nurses and decrepitold men who drowsed on the benches; it flickered upon all the movingfigures--on the children who ran screaming along the gravel paths andon everyone who passed through the gardens. He watched the scene andthought of life; and (as always happened when he thought of life) hebecame sad. A gentle melancholy took possession of him. He felt howuseless it was to struggle against fortune, this being the burden ofwisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him. 

He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He hadbought them in his bachelor days and many an evening, as he sat in thelittle room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one down from thebookshelf and read out something to his wife. But shyness had alwaysheld him back; and so the books had remained on their shelves. At timeshe repeated lines to himself and this consoled him. 

When his hour had struck he stood up and took leave of his desk and ofhis fellow-clerks punctiliously. He emerged from under the feudalarch of the King's Inns, a neat modest figure, and walked swiftly downHenrietta Street. The golden sunset was waning and the air had grownsharp. A horde of grimy children populated the street. They stood orran in the roadway or crawled up the steps before the gaping doors orsquatted like mice upon the thresholds. Little Chandler gave them nothought. He picked his way deftly through all that minute vermin-likelife and under the shadow of the gaunt spectral mansions in which theold nobility of Dublin had roystered. No memory of the past touched him, for his mind was full of a present joy. 

He had never been in Corless's but he knew the value of the name. Heknew that people went there after the theatre to eat oysters and drinkliqueurs; and he had heard that the waiters there spoke French andGerman. Walking swiftly by at night he had seen cabs drawn up before thedoor and richly dressed ladies, escorted by cavaliers, alight andenter quickly. They wore noisy dresses and many wraps. Their faces werepowdered and they caught up their dresses, when they touched earth, like alarmed Atalantas. He had always passed without turning his headto look. It was his habit to walk swiftly in the street even by day andwhenever he found himself in the city late at night he hurried on hisway apprehensively and excitedly. Sometimes, however, he courted thecauses of his fear. He chose the darkest and narrowest streets and, as he walked boldly forward, the silence that was spread about hisfootsteps troubled him, the wandering, silent figures troubled him; andat times a sound of low fugitive laughter made him tremble like a leaf. 

He turned to the right towards Capel Street. Ignatius Gallaher on theLondon Press! Who would have thought it possible eight years before?Still, now that he reviewed the past, Little Chandler could remembermany signs of future greatness in his friend. People used to say thatIgnatius Gallaher was wild Of course, he did mix with a rakish set offellows at that time, drank freely and borrowed money on all sides. In the end he had got mixed up in some shady affair, some moneytransaction: at least, that was one version of his flight. But nobodydenied him talent. There was always a certain. . . Something in IgnatiusGallaher that impressed you in spite of yourself. Even when he was outat elbows and at his wits' end for money he kept up a bold face. LittleChandler remembered (and the remembrance brought a slight flush of prideto his cheek) one of Ignatius Gallaher's sayings when he was in a tightcorner:

"Half time now, boys, " he used to say light-heartedly. "Where's myconsidering cap?"

That was Ignatius Gallaher all out; and, damn it, you couldn't butadmire him for it. 

Little Chandler quickened his pace. For the first time in his life hefelt himself superior to the people he passed. For the first time hissoul revolted against the dull inelegance of Capel Street. There was nodoubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You coulddo nothing in Dublin. As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down theriver towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses. Theyseemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together along the riverbanks, their old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panoramaof sunset and waiting for the first chill of night bid them arise, shakethemselves and begone. He wondered whether he could write a poem toexpress his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might be able to get it into someLondon paper for him. Could he write something original? He was not surewhat idea he wished to express but the thought that a poetic moment hadtouched him took life within him like an infant hope. He stepped onwardbravely. 

Every step brought him nearer to London, farther from his own soberinartistic life. A light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind. Hewas not so old--thirty-two. His temperament might be said to be justat the point of maturity. There were so many different moods andimpressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt them within him. He tried weigh his soul to see if it was a poet's soul. Melancholywas the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was amelancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simplejoy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps menwould listen. He would never be popular: he saw that. He could not swaythe crowd but he might appeal to a little circle of kindred minds. The English critics, perhaps, would recognise him as one of the Celticschool by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems; besides that, hewould put in allusions. He began to invent sentences and phrases fromthe notice which his book would get. "Mr. Chandler has the gift of easyand graceful verse. ". . . "wistful sadness pervades these poems. ". . . "TheCeltic note. " It was a pity his name was not more Irish-looking. Perhapsit would be better to insert his mother's name before the surname:Thomas Malone Chandler, or better still: T. Malone Chandler. He wouldspeak to Gallaher about it. 

He pursued his revery so ardently that he passed his street and hadto turn back. As he came near Corless's his former agitation began toovermaster him and he halted before the door in indecision. Finally heopened the door and entered. 

The light and noise of the bar held him at the doorways for a fewmoments. He looked about him, but his sight was confused by the shiningof many red and green wine-glasses The bar seemed to him to be fullof people and he felt that the people were observing him curiously. Heglanced quickly to right and left (frowning slightly to make his errandappear serious), but when his sight cleared a little he saw that nobodyhad turned to look at him: and there, sure enough, was Ignatius Gallaherleaning with his back against the counter and his feet planted farapart. 

"Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are! What is it to be? What will youhave? I'm taking whisky: better stuff than we get across the water. Soda? Lithia? No mineral? I'm the same Spoils the flavour. . . . Here, garcon, bring us two halves of malt whisky, like a good fellow. . . . Well, and how have you been pulling along since I saw you last? Dear God, how old we're getting! Do you see any signs of aging in me--eh, what? Alittle grey and thin on the top--what?"

Ignatius Gallaher took off his hat and displayed a large closely croppedhead. His face was heavy, pale and cleanshaven. His eyes, which were ofbluish slate-colour, relieved his unhealthy pallor and shone out plainlyabove the vivid orange tie he wore. Between these rival features thelips appeared very long and shapeless and colourless. He bent his headand felt with two sympathetic fingers the thin hair at the crown. LittleChandler shook his head as a denial. Ignatius Galaher put on his hatagain. 

"It pulls you down, " he said. "Press life. Always hurry and scurry, looking for copy and sometimes not finding it: and then, always to havesomething new in your stuff. Damn proofs and printers, I say, for a fewdays. I'm deuced glad, I can tell you, to get back to the old country. Does a fellow good, a bit of a holiday. I feel a ton better since Ilanded again in dear dirty Dublin. . . . Here you are, Tommy. Water? Saywhen. "

Little Chandler allowed his whisky to be very much diluted. 

"You don't know what's good for you, my boy, " said Ignatius Gallaher. "Idrink mine neat. "

"I drink very little as a rule, " said Little Chandler modestly. "An oddhalf-one or so when I meet any of the old crowd: that's all. "

"Ah well, " said Ignatius Gallaher, cheerfully, "here's to us and to oldtimes and old acquaintance. "

They clinked glasses and drank the toast. 

"I met some of the old gang today, " said Ignatius Gallaher. "O'Haraseems to be in a bad way. What's he doing?"

"Nothing, " said Little Chandler. "He's gone to the dogs. "

"But Hogan has a good sit, hasn't he?"

"Yes; he's in the Land Commission. "

"I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush. . . . PoorO'Hara! Boose, I suppose?"

"Other things, too, " said Little Chandler shortly. 

Ignatius Gallaher laughed. 

"Tommy, " he said, "I see you haven't changed an atom. You're the verysame serious person that used to lecture me on Sunday mornings when Ihad a sore head and a fur on my tongue. You'd want to knock about a bitin the world. Have you never been anywhere even for a trip?"

"I've been to the Isle of Man, " said Little Chandler. 

Ignatius Gallaher laughed. 

"The Isle of Man!" he said. "Go to London or Paris: Paris, for choice. That'd do you good. "

"Have you seen Paris?"

"I should think I have! I've knocked about there a little. "

"And is it really so beautiful as they say?" asked Little Chandler. 

He sipped a little of his drink while Ignatius Gallaher finished hisboldly. 

"Beautiful?" said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on theflavour of his drink. "It's not so beautiful, you know. Of course, it isbeautiful. . . . But it's the life of Paris; that's the thing. Ah, there'sno city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement. . . . "

Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after some trouble, succeededin catching the barman's eye. He ordered the same again. 

"I've been to the Moulin Rouge, " Ignatius Gallaher continued when thebarman had removed their glasses, "and I've been to all the Bohemiancafes. Hot stuff! Not for a pious chap like you, Tommy. "

Little Chandler said nothing until the barman returned with two glasses:then he touched his friend's glass lightly and reciprocated the formertoast. He was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned. Gallaher'saccent and way of expressing himself did not please him. There wassomething vulgar in his friend which he had not observed before. Butperhaps it was only the result of living in London amid the bustle andcompetition of the Press. The old personal charm was still there underthis new gaudy manner. And, after all, Gallaher had lived, he had seenthe world. Little Chandler looked at his friend enviously. 

"Everything in Paris is gay, " said Ignatius Gallaher. "They believe inenjoying life--and don't you think they're right? If you want to enjoyyourself properly you must go to Paris. And, mind you, they've a greatfeeling for the Irish there. When they heard I was from Ireland theywere ready to eat me, man. "

Little Chandler took four or five sips from his glass. 

"Tell me, " he said, "is it true that Paris is so. . . Immoral as theysay?"

Ignatius Gallaher made a catholic gesture with his right arm. 

"Every place is immoral, " he said. "Of course you do find spicy bits inParis. Go to one of the students' balls, for instance. That's lively, ifyou like, when the cocottes begin to let themselves loose. You know whatthey are, I suppose?"

"I've heard of them, " said Little Chandler. 

Ignatius Gallaher drank off his whisky and shook his had. 

"Ah, " he said, "you may say what you like. There's no woman like theParisienne--for style, for go. "

"Then it is an immoral city, " said Little Chandler, with timidinsistence--"I mean, compared with London or Dublin?"

"London!" said Ignatius Gallaher. "It's six of one and half-a-dozen ofthe other. You ask Hogan, my boy. I showed him a bit about London whenhe was over there. He'd open your eye. . . . I say, Tommy, don't make punchof that whisky: liquor up. "

"No, really. . . . "

"O, come on, another one won't do you any harm. What is it? The sameagain, I suppose?"

"Well. . . All right. "

"Francois, the same again. . . . Will you smoke, Tommy?"

Ignatius Gallaher produced his cigar-case. The two friends lit theircigars and puffed at them in silence until their drinks were served. 

"I'll tell you my opinion, " said Ignatius Gallaher, emerging after sometime from the clouds of smoke in which he had taken refuge, "it's a rumworld. Talk of immorality! I've heard of cases--what am I saying?--I'veknown them: cases of. . . Immorality. . . . "

Ignatius Gallaher puffed thoughtfully at his cigar and then, in a calmhistorian's tone, he proceeded to sketch for his friend some picturesof the corruption which was rife abroad. He summarised the vices of manycapitals and seemed inclined to award the palm to Berlin. Some things hecould not vouch for (his friends had told him), but of others he had hadpersonal experience. He spared neither rank nor caste. He revealed manyof the secrets of religious houses on the Continent and described someof the practices which were fashionable in high society and ended bytelling, with details, a story about an English duchess--a story whichhe knew to be true. Little Chandler as astonished. 

"Ah, well, " said Ignatius Gallaher, "here we are in old jog-along Dublinwhere nothing is known of such things. "

"How dull you must find it, " said Little Chandler, "after all the otherplaces you've seen!"

"Well, " said Ignatius Gallaher, "it's a relaxation to come over here, you know. And, after all, it's the old country, as they say, isn't it?You can't help having a certain feeling for it. That's human nature. . . . But tell me something about yourself. Hogan told me you had. . . Tastedthe joys of connubial bliss. Two years ago, wasn't it?"

Little Chandler blushed and smiled. 

"Yes, " he said. "I was married last May twelve months. "

"I hope it's not too late in the day to offer my best wishes, " saidIgnatius Gallaher. "I didn't know your address or I'd have done so atthe time. "

He extended his hand, which Little Chandler took. 

"Well, Tommy, " he said, "I wish you and yours every joy in life, oldchap, and tons of money, and may you never die till I shoot you. Andthat's the wish of a sincere friend, an old friend. You know that?"

"I know that, " said Little Chandler. 

"Any youngsters?" said Ignatius Gallaher. 

Little Chandler blushed again. 

"We have one child, " he said. 

"Son or daughter?"

"A little boy. "

Ignatius Gallaher slapped his friend sonorously on the back. 

"Bravo, " he said, "I wouldn't doubt you, Tommy. "

Little Chandler smiled, looked confusedly at his glass and bit his lowerlip with three childishly white front teeth. 

"I hope you'll spend an evening with us, " he said, "before you goback. My wife will be delighted to meet you. We can have a little musicand----"

"Thanks awfully, old chap, " said Ignatius Gallaher, "I'm sorry we didn'tmeet earlier. But I must leave tomorrow night. "

"Tonight, perhaps. . . ?"

"I'm awfully sorry, old man. You see I'm over here with anotherfellow, clever young chap he is too, and we arranged to go to a littlecard-party. Only for that. . . "

"O, in that case. . . "

"But who knows?" said Ignatius Gallaher considerately. "Next year I maytake a little skip over here now that I've broken the ice. It's only apleasure deferred. "

"Very well, " said Little Chandler, "the next time you come we must havean evening together. That's agreed now, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's agreed, " said Ignatius Gallaher. "Next year if I come, parole d'honneur. "

"And to clinch the bargain, " said Little Chandler, "we'll just have onemore now. "

Ignatius Gallaher took out a large gold watch and looked a it. 

"Is it to be the last?" he said. "Because you know, I have an a. P. "

"O, yes, positively, " said Little Chandler. 

"Very well, then, " said Ignatius Gallaher, "let us have another one as adeoc an doruis--that's good vernacular for a small whisky, I believe. "

Little Chandler ordered the drinks. The blush which had risen to hisface a few moments before was establishing itself. A trifle madehim blush at any time: and now he felt warm and excited. Three smallwhiskies had gone to his head and Gallaher's strong cigar had confusedhis mind, for he was a delicate and abstinent person. The adventure ofmeeting Gallaher after eight years, of finding himself with Gallaherin Corless's surrounded by lights and noise, of listening to Gallaher'sstories and of sharing for a brief space Gallaher's vagrant andtriumphant life, upset the equipoise of his sensitive nature. He feltacutely the contrast between his own life and his friend's and it seemedto him unjust. Gallaher was his inferior in birth and education. He wassure that he could do something better than his friend had ever done, orcould ever do, something higher than mere tawdry journalism if he onlygot the chance. What was it that stood in his way? His unfortunatetimidity He wished to vindicate himself in some way, to assert hismanhood. He saw behind Gallaher's refusal of his invitation. Gallaherwas only patronising him by his friendliness just as he was patronisingIreland by his visit. 

The barman brought their drinks. Little Chandler pushed one glasstowards his friend and took up the other boldly. 

"Who knows?" he said, as they lifted their glasses. "When you come nextyear I may have the pleasure of wishing long life and happiness to Mr. And Mrs. Ignatius Gallaher. "

Ignatius Gallaher in the act of drinking closed one eye expressivelyover the rim of his glass. When he had drunk he smacked his lipsdecisively, set down his glass and said:

"No blooming fear of that, my boy. I'm going to have my fling first andsee a bit of life and the world before I put my head in the sack--if Iever do. "

"Some day you will, " said Little Chandler calmly. 

Ignatius Gallaher turned his orange tie and slate-blue eyes full uponhis friend. 

"You think so?" he said. 

"You'll put your head in the sack, " repeated Little Chandler stoutly, "like everyone else if you can find the girl. "

He had slightly emphasised his tone and he was aware that he hadbetrayed himself; but, though the colour had heightened in his cheek, hedid not flinch from his friend's gaze. Ignatius Gallaher watched him fora few moments and then said:

"If ever it occurs, you may bet your bottom dollar there'll be nomooning and spooning about it. I mean to marry money. She'll have a goodfat account at the bank or she won't do for me. "

Little Chandler shook his head. 

"Why, man alive, " said Ignatius Gallaher, vehemently, "do you know whatit is? I've only to say the word and tomorrow I can have the womanand the cash. You don't believe it? Well, I know it. There arehundreds--what am I saying?--thousands of rich Germans and Jews, rottenwith money, that'd only be too glad. . . . You wait a while my boy. See ifI don't play my cards properly. When I go about a thing I mean business, I tell you. You just wait. "

He tossed his glass to his mouth, finished his drink and laughed loudly. Then he looked thoughtfully before him and said in a calmer tone:

"But I'm in no hurry. They can wait. I don't fancy tying myself up toone woman, you know. "

He imitated with his mouth the act of tasting and made a wry face. 

"Must get a bit stale, I should think, " he said. 

Little Chandler sat in the room off the hall, holding a child in hisarms. To save money they kept no servant but Annie's young sister Monicacame for an hour or so in the morning and an hour or so in the eveningto help. But Monica had gone home long ago. It was a quarter to nine. Little Chandler had come home late for tea and, moreover, he hadforgotten to bring Annie home the parcel of coffee from Bewley's. Ofcourse she was in a bad humour and gave him short answers. She said shewould do without any tea but when it came near the time at which theshop at the corner closed she decided to go out herself for a quarterof a pound of tea and two pounds of sugar. She put the sleeping childdeftly in his arms and said:

"Here. Don't waken him. "

A little lamp with a white china shade stood upon the table and itslight fell over a photograph which was enclosed in a frame of crumpledhorn. It was Annie's photograph. Little Chandler looked at it, pausingat the thin tight lips. She wore the pale blue summer blouse which hehad brought her home as a present one Saturday. It had cost him ten andelevenpence; but what an agony of nervousness it had cost him! Howhe had suffered that day, waiting at the shop door until the shop wasempty, standing at the counter and trying to appear at his ease whilethe girl piled ladies' blouses before him, paying at the desk andforgetting to take up the odd penny of his change, being called back bythe cashier, and finally, striving to hide his blushes as he left theshop by examining the parcel to see if it was securely tied. When hebrought the blouse home Annie kissed him and said it was very pretty andstylish; but when she heard the price she threw the blouse on the tableand said it was a regular swindle to charge ten and elevenpence for it. At first she wanted to take it back but when she tried it on she wasdelighted with it, especially with the make of the sleeves, and kissedhim and said he was very good to think of her. 

Hm!. . . 

He looked coldly into the eyes of the photograph and they answeredcoldly. Certainly they were pretty and the face itself was pretty. Buthe found something mean in it. Why was it so unconscious and ladylike?The composure of the eyes irritated him. They repelled him and defiedhim: there was no passion in them, no rapture. He thought of whatGallaher had said about rich Jewesses. Those dark Oriental eyes, hethought, how full they are of passion, of voluptuous longing!. . . Why hadhe married the eyes in the photograph?

He caught himself up at the question and glanced nervously round theroom. He found something mean in the pretty furniture which he hadbought for his house on the hire system. Annie had chosen it herselfand it reminded hi of her. It too was prim and pretty. A dull resentmentagainst his life awoke within him. Could he not escape from his littlehouse? Was it too late for him to try to live bravely like Gallaher?Could he go to London? There was the furniture still to be paid for. Ifhe could only write a book and get it published, that might open the wayfor him. 

A volume of Byron's poems lay before him on the table. He opened itcautiously with his left hand lest he should waken the child and beganto read the first poem in the book:

 Hushed are the winds and still the evening gloom, Not e'en a Zephyr wanders through the grove, Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb And scatter flowers on the dust I love. 

He paused. He felt the rhythm of the verse about him in the room. How melancholy it was! Could he, too, write like that, express themelancholy of his soul in verse? There were so many things he wantedto describe: his sensation of a few hours before on Grattan Bridge, forexample. If he could get back again into that mood. . . . 

The child awoke and began to cry. He turned from the page and tried tohush it: but it would not be hushed. He began to rock it to and fro inhis arms but its wailing cry grew keener. He rocked it faster while hiseyes began to read the second stanza:

 Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, That clay where once. . . 

It was useless. He couldn't read. He couldn't do anything. The wailingof the child pierced the drum of his ear. It was useless, useless!He was a prisoner for life. His arms trembled with anger and suddenlybending to the child's face he shouted:

"Stop!"

The child stopped for an instant, had a spasm of fright and began toscream. He jumped up from his chair and walked hastily up and down theroom with the child in his arms. It began to sob piteously, losing itsbreath for four or five seconds, and then bursting out anew. The thinwalls of the room echoed the sound. He tried to soothe it but it sobbedmore convulsively. He looked at the contracted and quivering face ofthe child and began to be alarmed. He counted seven sobs without abreak between them and caught the child to his breast in fright. If itdied!. . . 

The door was burst open and a young woman ran in, panting. 

"What is it? What is it?" she cried. 

The child, hearing its mother's voice, broke out into a paroxysm ofsobbing. 

"It's nothing, Annie. . . It's nothing. . . . He began to cry. . . "

She flung her parcels on the floor and snatched the child from him. 

"What have you done to him?" she cried, glaring into his face. 

Little Chandler sustained for one moment the gaze of her eyes and hisheart closed together as he met the hatred in them. He began to stammer:

"It's nothing. . . . He. . . He began to cry. . . . I couldn't. . . I didn't doanything. . . . What?"

Giving no heed to him she began to walk up and down the room, claspingthe child tightly in her arms and murmuring:

"My little man! My little mannie! Was 'ou frightened, love?. . . Therenow, love! There now!. . . Lambabaun! Mamma's little lamb of the world!. . . There now!"

Little Chandler felt his cheeks suffused with shame and he stood backout of the lamplight. He listened while the paroxysm of the child'ssobbing grew less and less; and tears of remorse started to his eyes. 

COUNTERPARTS

THE bell rang furiously and, when Miss Parker went to the tube, afurious voice called out in a piercing North of Ireland accent:

"Send Farrington here!"

Miss Parker returned to her machine, saying to a man who was writing ata desk:

"Mr. Alleyne wants you upstairs. "

The man muttered "Blast him!" under his breath and pushed back his chairto stand up. When he stood up he was tall and of great bulk. He had ahanging face, dark wine-coloured, with fair eyebrows and moustache:his eyes bulged forward slightly and the whites of them were dirty. He lifted up the counter and, passing by the clients, went out of theoffice with a heavy step. 

He went heavily upstairs until he came to the second landing, wherea door bore a brass plate with the inscription Mr. Alleyne. Here hehalted, puffing with labour and vexation, and knocked. The shrill voicecried:

"Come in!"

The man entered Mr. Alleyne's room. Simultaneously Mr. Alleyne, a littleman wearing gold-rimmed glasses on a cleanshaven face, shot his head upover a pile of documents. The head itself was so pink and hairless itseemed like a large egg reposing on the papers. Mr. Alleyne did not losea moment:

"Farrington? What is the meaning of this? Why have I always to complainof you? May I ask you why you haven't made a copy of that contractbetween Bodley and Kirwan? I told you it must be ready by four o'clock. "

"But Mr. Shelley said, sir----"

"Mr. Shelley said, sir. . . . Kindly attend to what I say and not towhat Mr. Shelley says, sir. You have always some excuse or another forshirking work. Let me tell you that if the contract is not copied beforethis evening I'll lay the matter before Mr. Crosbie. . . . Do you hear menow?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Do you hear me now?. . . Ay and another little matter! I might as well betalking to the wall as talking to you. Understand once for all that youget a half an hour for your lunch and not an hour and a half. How manycourses do you want, I'd like to know. . . . Do you mind me now?"

"Yes, sir. "

Mr. Alleyne bent his head again upon his pile of papers. The man staredfixedly at the polished skull which directed the affairs of Crosbie &Alleyne, gauging its fragility. A spasm of rage gripped his throat fora few moments and then passed, leaving after it a sharp sensation ofthirst. The man recognised the sensation and felt that he must have agood night's drinking. The middle of the month was passed and, if hecould get the copy done in time, Mr. Alleyne might give him an order onthe cashier. He stood still, gazing fixedly at the head upon the pileof papers. Suddenly Mr. Alleyne began to upset all the papers, searchingfor something. Then, as if he had been unaware of the man's presencetill that moment, he shot up his head again, saying:

"Eh? Are you going to stand there all day? Upon my word, Farrington, youtake things easy!"

"I was waiting to see. . . "

"Very good, you needn't wait to see. Go downstairs and do your work. "

The man walked heavily towards the door and, as he went out of the room, he heard Mr. Alleyne cry after him that if the contract was not copiedby evening Mr. Crosbie would hear of the matter. 

He returned to his desk in the lower office and counted the sheets whichremained to be copied. He took up his pen and dipped it in the ink buthe continued to stare stupidly at the last words he had written: In nocase shall the said Bernard Bodley be. . . The evening was falling and ina few minutes they would be lighting the gas: then he could write. Hefelt that he must slake the thirst in his throat. He stood up from hisdesk and, lifting the counter as before, passed out of the office. As hewas passing out the chief clerk looked at him inquiringly. 

"It's all right, Mr. Shelley, " said the man, pointing with his finger toindicate the objective of his journey. 

The chief clerk glanced at the hat-rack, but, seeing the row complete, offered no remark. As soon as he was on the landing the man pulleda shepherd's plaid cap out of his pocket, put it on his head and ranquickly down the rickety stairs. From the street door he walked onfurtively on the inner side of the path towards the corner and all atonce dived into a doorway. He was now safe in the dark snug of O'Neill'sshop, and filling up the little window that looked into the bar with hisinflamed face, the colour of dark wine or dark meat, he called out:

"Here, Pat, give us a g. P. . Like a good fellow. "

The curate brought him a glass of plain porter. The man drank it at agulp and asked for a caraway seed. He put his penny on the counter and, leaving the curate to grope for it in the gloom, retreated out of thesnug as furtively as he had entered it. 

Darkness, accompanied by a thick fog, was gaining upon the dusk ofFebruary and the lamps in Eustace Street had been lit. The man went upby the houses until he reached the door of the office, wondering whetherhe could finish his copy in time. On the stairs a moist pungent odour ofperfumes saluted his nose: evidently Miss Delacour had come while hewas out in O'Neill's. He crammed his cap back again into his pocket andre-entered the office, assuming an air of absentmindedness. 

"Mr. Alleyne has been calling for you, " said the chief clerk severely. "Where were you?"

The man glanced at the two clients who were standing at the counter asif to intimate that their presence prevented him from answering. As theclients were both male the chief clerk allowed himself a laugh. 

"I know that game, " he said. "Five times in one day is a little bit. . . Well, you better look sharp and get a copy of our correspondence in theDelacour case for Mr. Alleyne. "

This address in the presence of the public, his run upstairs and theporter he had gulped down so hastily confused the man and, as he satdown at his desk to get what was required, he realised how hopeless wasthe task of finishing his copy of the contract before half past five. The dark damp night was coming and he longed to spend it in the bars, drinking with his friends amid the glare of gas and the clatter ofglasses. He got out the Delacour correspondence and passed out ofthe office. He hoped Mr. Alleyne would not discover that the last twoletters were missing. 

The moist pungent perfume lay all the way up to Mr. Alleyne's room. MissDelacour was a middle-aged woman of Jewish appearance. Mr. Alleyne wassaid to be sweet on her or on her money. She came to the office oftenand stayed a long time when she came. She was sitting beside his desknow in an aroma of perfumes, smoothing the handle of her umbrella andnodding the great black feather in her hat. Mr. Alleyne had swivelledhis chair round to face her and thrown his right foot jauntily uponhis left knee. The man put the correspondence on the desk and bowedrespectfully but neither Mr. Alleyne nor Miss Delacour took any noticeof his bow. Mr. Alleyne tapped a finger on the correspondence and thenflicked it towards him as if to say: "That's all right: you can go. "

The man returned to the lower office and sat down again at his desk. He stared intently at the incomplete phrase: In no case shall the saidBernard Bodley be. . . And thought how strange it was that the last threewords began with the same letter. The chief clerk began to hurry MissParker, saying she would never have the letters typed in time for post. The man listened to the clicking of the machine for a few minutes andthen set to work to finish his copy. But his head was not clear and hismind wandered away to the glare and rattle of the public-house. It was anight for hot punches. He struggled on with his copy, but when the clockstruck five he had still fourteen pages to write. Blast it! He couldn'tfinish it in time. He longed to execrate aloud, to bring his fist downon something violently. He was so enraged that he wrote Bernard Bernardinstead of Bernard Bodley and had to begin again on a clean sheet. 

He felt strong enough to clear out the whole office singlehanded. Hisbody ached to do something, to rush out and revel in violence. Allthe indignities of his life enraged him. . . . Could he ask the cashierprivately for an advance? No, the cashier was no good, no damn good:he wouldn't give an advance. . . . He knew where he would meet the boys:Leonard and O'Halloran and Nosey Flynn. The barometer of his emotionalnature was set for a spell of riot. 

His imagination had so abstracted him that his name was called twicebefore he answered. Mr. Alleyne and Miss Delacour were standing outsidethe counter and all the clerks had turn round in anticipation ofsomething. The man got up from his desk. Mr. Alleyne began a tirade ofabuse, saying that two letters were missing. The man answered that heknew nothing about them, that he had made a faithful copy. The tiradecontinued: it was so bitter and violent that the man could hardlyrestrain his fist from descending upon the head of the manikin beforehim:

"I know nothing about any other two letters, " he said stupidly. 

"You--know--nothing. Of course you know nothing, " said Mr. Alleyne. "Tell me, " he added, glancing first for approval to the lady beside him, "do you take me for a fool? Do you think me an utter fool?"

The man glanced from the lady's face to the little egg-shaped head andback again; and, almost before he was aware of it, his tongue had founda felicitous moment:

"I don't think, sir, " he said, "that that's a fair question to put tome. "

There was a pause in the very breathing of the clerks. Everyone wasastounded (the author of the witticism no less than his neighbours) andMiss Delacour, who was a stout amiable person, began to smile broadly. Mr. Alleyne flushed to the hue of a wild rose and his mouth twitchedwith a dwarf s passion. He shook his fist in the man's face till itseemed to vibrate like the knob of some electric machine:

"You impertinent ruffian! You impertinent ruffian! I'll make short workof you! Wait till you see! You'll apologise to me for your impertinenceor you'll quit the office instanter! You'll quit this, I'm telling you, or you'll apologise to me!"

He stood in a doorway opposite the office watching to see if the cashierwould come out alone. All the clerks passed out and finally the cashiercame out with the chief clerk. It was no use trying to say a word to himwhen he was with the chief clerk. The man felt that his position was badenough. He had been obliged to offer an abject apology to Mr. Alleynefor his impertinence but he knew what a hornet's nest the office wouldbe for him. He could remember the way in which Mr. Alleyne had houndedlittle Peake out of the office in order to make room for his own nephew. He felt savage and thirsty and revengeful, annoyed with himself and witheveryone else. Mr. Alleyne would never give him an hour's rest; his lifewould be a hell to him. He had made a proper fool of himself this time. Could he not keep his tongue in his cheek? But they had never pulledtogether from the first, he and Mr. Alleyne, ever since the day Mr. Alleyne had overheard him mimicking his North of Ireland accent to amuseHiggins and Miss Parker: that had been the beginning of it. He mighthave tried Higgins for the money, but sure Higgins never had anythingfor himself. A man with two establishments to keep up, of course hecouldn't. . . . 

He felt his great body again aching for the comfort of the public-house. The fog had begun to chill him and he wondered could he touch Pat inO'Neill's. He could not touch him for more than a bob--and a bob wasno use. Yet he must get money somewhere or other: he had spent hislast penny for the g. P. And soon it would be too late for getting moneyanywhere. Suddenly, as he was fingering his watch-chain, he thought ofTerry Kelly's pawn-office in Fleet Street. That was the dart! Why didn'the think of it sooner?

He went through the narrow alley of Temple Bar quickly, muttering tohimself that they could all go to hell because he was going to havea good night of it. The clerk in Terry Kelly's said A crown! but theconsignor held out for six shillings; and in the end the six shillingswas allowed him literally. He came out of the pawn-office joyfully, making a little cylinder, of the coins between his thumb and fingers. InWestmoreland Street the footpaths were crowded with young men and womenreturning from business and ragged urchins ran here and there yellingout the names of the evening editions. The man passed through the crowd, looking on the spectacle generally with proud satisfaction and staringmasterfully at the office-girls. His head was full of the noises oftram-gongs and swishing trolleys and his nose already sniffed thecurling fumes punch. As he walked on he preconsidered the terms in whichhe would narrate the incident to the boys:

"So, I just looked at him--coolly, you know, and looked at her. Then Ilooked back at him again--taking my time, you know. 'I don't think thatthat's a fair question to put to me, ' says I. "

Nosey Flynn was sitting up in his usual corner of Davy Byrne's and, whenhe heard the story, he stood Farrington a half-one, saying it was assmart a thing as ever he heard. Farrington stood a drink in his turn. After a while O'Halloran and Paddy Leonard came in and the story wasrepeated to them. O'Halloran stood tailors of malt, hot, all round andtold the story of the retort he had made to the chief clerk when he wasin Callan's of Fownes's Street; but, as the retort was after the mannerof the liberal shepherds in the eclogues, he had to admit that it wasnot as clever as Farrington's retort. At this Farrington told the boysto polish off that and have another. 

Just as they were naming their poisons who should come in but Higgins!Of course he had to join in with the others. The men asked him to givehis version of it, and he did so with great vivacity for the sight offive small hot whiskies was very exhilarating. Everyone roaredlaughing when he showed the way in which Mr. Alleyne shook his fist inFarrington's face. Then he imitated Farrington, saying, "And here was mynabs, as cool as you please, " while Farrington looked at the company outof his heavy dirty eyes, smiling and at times drawing forth stray dropsof liquor from his moustache with the aid of his lower lip. 

When that round was over there was a pause. O'Halloran had money butneither of the other two seemed to have any; so the whole party leftthe shop somewhat regretfully. At the corner of Duke Street Higgins andNosey Flynn bevelled off to the left while the other three turned backtowards the city. Rain was drizzling down on the cold streets and, whenthey reached the Ballast Office, Farrington suggested the Scotch House. The bar was full of men and loud with the noise of tongues and glasses. The three men pushed past the whining match-sellers at the door andformed a little party at the corner of the counter. They began toexchange stories. Leonard introduced them to a young fellow namedWeathers who was performing at the Tivoli as an acrobat and knockaboutartiste. Farrington stood a drink all round. Weathers said he would takea small Irish and Apollinaris. Farrington, who had definite notions ofwhat was what, asked the boys would they have an Apollinaris too;but the boys told Tim to make theirs hot. The talk became theatrical. O'Halloran stood a round and then Farrington stood another round, Weathers protesting that the hospitality was too Irish. He promised toget them in behind the scenes and introduce them to some nice girls. O'Halloran said that he and Leonard would go, but that Farringtonwouldn't go because he was a married man; and Farrington's heavy dirtyeyes leered at the company in token that he understood he was beingchaffed. Weathers made them all have just one little tincture at hisexpense and promised to meet them later on at Mulligan's in PoolbegStreet. 

When the Scotch House closed they went round to Mulligan's. They wentinto the parlour at the back and O'Halloran ordered small hot specialsall round. They were all beginning to feel mellow. Farrington was juststanding another round when Weathers came back. Much to Farrington'srelief he drank a glass of bitter this time. Funds were getting low butthey had enough to keep them going. Presently two young women with bighats and a young man in a check suit came in and sat at a table closeby. Weathers saluted them and told the company that they were out of theTivoli. Farrington's eyes wandered at every moment in the direction ofone of the young women. There was something striking in her appearance. An immense scarf of peacock-blue muslin was wound round her hat andknotted in a great bow under her chin; and she wore bright yellowgloves, reaching to the elbow. Farrington gazed admiringly at the plumparm which she moved very often and with much grace; and when, after alittle time, she answered his gaze he admired still more her large darkbrown eyes. The oblique staring expression in them fascinated him. Sheglanced at him once or twice and, when the party was leaving the room, she brushed against his chair and said "O, pardon!" in a London accent. He watched her leave the room in the hope that she would look back athim, but he was disappointed. He cursed his want of money and cursed allthe rounds he had stood, particularly all the whiskies and Apolinariswhich he had stood to Weathers. If there was one thing that he hated itwas a sponge. He was so angry that he lost count of the conversation ofhis friends. 

When Paddy Leonard called him he found that they were talking aboutfeats of strength. Weathers was showing his biceps muscle to the companyand boasting so much that the other two had called on Farrington touphold the national honour. Farrington pulled up his sleeve accordinglyand showed his biceps muscle to the company. The two arms were examinedand compared and finally it was agreed to have a trial of strength. Thetable was cleared and the two men rested their elbows on it, claspinghands. When Paddy Leonard said "Go!" each was to try to bring downthe other's hand on to the table. Farrington looked very serious anddetermined. 

The trial began. After about thirty seconds Weathers brought hisopponent's hand slowly down on to the table. Farrington's darkwine-coloured face flushed darker still with anger and humiliation athaving been defeated by such a stripling. 

"You're not to put the weight of your body behind it. Play fair, " hesaid. 

"Who's not playing fair?" said the other. 

"Come on again. The two best out of three. "

The trial began again. The veins stood out on Farrington's forehead, and the pallor of Weathers' complexion changed to peony. Their handsand arms trembled under the stress. After a long struggle Weathers againbrought his opponent's hand slowly on to the table. There was a murmurof applause from the spectators. The curate, who was standing besidethe table, nodded his red head towards the victor and said with stupidfamiliarity:

"Ah! that's the knack!"

"What the hell do you know about it?" said Farrington fiercely, turningon the man. "What do you put in your gab for?"

"Sh, sh!" said O'Halloran, observing the violent expression ofFarrington's face. "Pony up, boys. We'll have just one little smahanmore and then we'll be off. "

A very sullen-faced man stood at the corner of O'Connell Bridgewaiting for the little Sandymount tram to take him home. He was fullof smouldering anger and revengefulness. He felt humiliated anddiscontented; he did not even feel drunk; and he had only twopence inhis pocket. He cursed everything. He had done for himself in the office, pawned his watch, spent all his money; and he had not even got drunk. He began to feel thirsty again and he longed to be back again in the hotreeking public-house. He had lost his reputation as a strong man, havingbeen defeated twice by a mere boy. His heart swelled with fury and, whenhe thought of the woman in the big hat who had brushed against him andsaid Pardon! his fury nearly choked him. 

His tram let him down at Shelbourne Road and he steered his great bodyalong in the shadow of the wall of the barracks. He loathed returningto his home. When he went in by the side-door he found the kitchen emptyand the kitchen fire nearly out. He bawled upstairs:

"Ada! Ada!"

His wife was a little sharp-faced woman who bullied her husband whenhe was sober and was bullied by him when he was drunk. They had fivechildren. A little boy came running down the stairs. 

"Who is that?" said the man, peering through the darkness. 

"Me, pa. "

"Who are you? Charlie?"

"No, pa. Tom. "

"Where's your mother?"

"She's out at the chapel. "

"That's right. . . . Did she think of leaving any dinner for me?"

"Yes, pa. I--"

"Light the lamp. What do you mean by having the place in darkness? Arethe other children in bed?"

The man sat down heavily on one of the chairs while the little boylit the lamp. He began to mimic his son's flat accent, saying half tohimself: "At the chapel. At the chapel, if you please!" When the lampwas lit he banged his fist on the table and shouted:

"What's for my dinner?"

"I'm going. . . To cook it, pa, " said the little boy. 

The man jumped up furiously and pointed to the fire. 

"On that fire! You let the fire out! By God, I'll teach you to do thatagain!"

He took a step to the door and seized the walking-stick which wasstanding behind it. 

"I'll teach you to let the fire out!" he said, rolling up his sleeve inorder to give his arm free play. 

The little boy cried "O, pa!" and ran whimpering round the table, butthe man followed him and caught him by the coat. The little boy lookedabout him wildly but, seeing no way of escape, fell upon his knees. 

"Now, you'll let the fire out the next time!" said the man striking athim vigorously with the stick. "Take that, you little whelp!"

The boy uttered a squeal of pain as the stick cut his thigh. He claspedhis hands together in the air and his voice shook with fright. 

"O, pa!" he cried. "Don't beat me, pa! And I'll. . . I'll say a Hail Maryfor you. . . . I'll say a Hail Mary for you, pa, if you don't beat me. . . . I'll say a Hail Mary. . . . "

CLAY

THE matron had given her leave to go out as soon as the women's tea wasover and Maria looked forward to her evening out. The kitchen wasspick and span: the cook said you could see yourself in the big copperboilers. The fire was nice and bright and on one of the side-tables werefour very big barmbracks. These barmbracks seemed uncut; but if you wentcloser you would see that they had been cut into long thick even slicesand were ready to be handed round at tea. Maria had cut them herself. 

Maria was a very, very small person indeed but she had a very longnose and a very long chin. She talked a little through her nose, alwayssoothingly: "Yes, my dear, " and "No, my dear. " She was always sent forwhen the women quarrelled Over their tubs and always succeeded in makingpeace. One day the matron had said to her:

"Maria, you are a veritable peace-maker!"

And the sub-matron and two of the Board ladies had heard the compliment. And Ginger Mooney was always saying what she wouldn't do to the dummywho had charge of the irons if it wasn't for Maria. Everyone was so fondof Maria. 

The women would have their tea at six o'clock and she would be able toget away before seven. From Ballsbridge to the Pillar, twenty minutes;from the Pillar to Drumcondra, twenty minutes; and twenty minutes to buythe things. She would be there before eight. She took out her purse withthe silver clasps and read again the words A Present from Belfast. Shewas very fond of that purse because Joe had brought it to her five yearsbefore when he and Alphy had gone to Belfast on a Whit-Monday trip. Inthe purse were two half-crowns and some coppers. She would have fiveshillings clear after paying tram fare. What a nice evening they wouldhave, all the children singing! Only she hoped that Joe wouldn't come indrunk. He was so different when he took any drink. 

Often he had wanted her to go and live with them;-but she would havefelt herself in the way (though Joe's wife was ever so nice with her)and she had become accustomed to the life of the laundry. Joe was a goodfellow. She had nursed him and Alphy too; and Joe used often say:

"Mamma is mamma but Maria is my proper mother. "

After the break-up at home the boys had got her that position in theDublin by Lamplight laundry, and she liked it. She used to have sucha bad opinion of Protestants but now she thought they were very nicepeople, a little quiet and serious, but still very nice people to livewith. Then she had her plants in the conservatory and she liked lookingafter them. She had lovely ferns and wax-plants and, whenever anyonecame to visit her, she always gave the visitor one or two slips fromher conservatory. There was one thing she didn't like and that was thetracts on the walks; but the matron was such a nice person to deal with, so genteel. 

When the cook told her everything was ready she went into the women'sroom and began to pull the big bell. In a few minutes the women beganto come in by twos and threes, wiping their steaming hands in theirpetticoats and pulling down the sleeves of their blouses over their redsteaming arms. They settled down before their huge mugs which the cookand the dummy filled up with hot tea, already mixed with milk and sugarin huge tin cans. Maria superintended the distribution of the barmbrackand saw that every woman got her four slices. There was a great deal oflaughing and joking during the meal. Lizzie Fleming said Maria was sureto get the ring and, though Fleming had said that for so many HallowEves, Maria had to laugh and say she didn't want any ring or man either;and when she laughed her grey-green eyes sparkled with disappointedshyness and the tip of her nose nearly met the tip of her chin. ThenGinger Mooney lifted her mug of tea and proposed Maria's health whileall the other women clattered with their mugs on the table, and said shewas sorry she hadn't a sup of porter to drink it in. And Maria laughedagain till the tip of her nose nearly met the tip of her chin and tillher minute body nearly shook itself asunder because she knew that Mooneymeant well though, of course, she had the notions of a common woman. 

But wasn't Maria glad when the women had finished their tea and the cookand the dummy had begun to clear away the tea-things! She went intoher little bedroom and, remembering that the next morning was a massmorning, changed the hand of the alarm from seven to six. Then she tookoff her working skirt and her house-boots and laid her best skirt out onthe bed and her tiny dress-boots beside the foot of the bed. She changedher blouse too and, as she stood before the mirror, she thought of howshe used to dress for mass on Sunday morning when she was a young girl;and she looked with quaint affection at the diminutive body which shehad so often adorned, In spite of its years she found it a nice tidylittle body. 

When she got outside the streets were shining with rain and she was gladof her old brown waterproof. The tram was full and she had to sit on thelittle stool at the end of the car, facing all the people, with her toesbarely touching the floor. She arranged in her mind all she was going todo and thought how much better it was to be independent and to have yourown money in your pocket. She hoped they would have a nice evening. Shewas sure they would but she could not help thinking what a pity it wasAlphy and Joe were not speaking. They were always falling out now butwhen they were boys together they used to be the best of friends: butsuch was life. 

She got out of her tram at the Pillar and ferreted her way quickly amongthe crowds. She went into Downes's cake-shop but the shop was so full ofpeople that it was a long time before she could get herself attendedto. She bought a dozen of mixed penny cakes, and at last came out of theshop laden with a big bag. Then she thought what else would she buy: shewanted to buy something really nice. They would be sure to have plentyof apples and nuts. It was hard to know what to buy and all she couldthink of was cake. She decided to buy some plumcake but Downes'splumcake had not enough almond icing on top of it so she went over toa shop in Henry Street. Here she was a long time in suiting herself andthe stylish young lady behind the counter, who was evidently a littleannoyed by her, asked her was it wedding-cake she wanted to buy. Thatmade Maria blush and smile at the young lady; but the young lady took itall very seriously and finally cut a thick slice of plumcake, parcelledit up and said:

"Two-and-four, please. "

She thought she would have to stand in the Drumcondra tram because noneof the young men seemed to notice her but an elderly gentleman made roomfor her. He was a stout gentleman and he wore a brown hard hat; he hada square red face and a greyish moustache. Maria thought he was acolonel-looking gentleman and she reflected how much more polite he wasthan the young men who simply stared straight before them. The gentlemanbegan to chat with her about Hallow Eve and the rainy weather. Hesupposed the bag was full of good things for the little ones and saidit was only right that the youngsters should enjoy themselves while theywere young. Maria agreed with him and favoured him with demure nods andhems. He was very nice with her, and when she was getting out at theCanal Bridge she thanked him and bowed, and he bowed to her and raisedhis hat and smiled agreeably, and while she was going up along theterrace, bending her tiny head under the rain, she thought how easy itwas to know a gentleman even when he has a drop taken. 

Everybody said: "O, here's Maria!" when she came to Joe's house. Joe wasthere, having come home from business, and all the children had theirSunday dresses on. There were two big girls in from next door and gameswere going on. Maria gave the bag of cakes to the eldest boy, Alphy, todivide and Mrs. Donnelly said it was too good of her to bring such a bigbag of cakes and made all the children say:

"Thanks, Maria. "

But Maria said she had brought something special for papa and mamma, something they would be sure to like, and she began to look for herplumcake. She tried in Downes's bag and then in the pockets of herwaterproof and then on the hallstand but nowhere could she find it. Then she asked all the children had any of them eaten it--by mistake, ofcourse--but the children all said no and looked as if they did not liketo eat cakes if they were to be accused of stealing. Everybody had asolution for the mystery and Mrs. Donnelly said it was plain that Mariahad left it behind her in the tram. Maria, remembering how confused thegentleman with the greyish moustache had made her, coloured with shameand vexation and disappointment. At the thought of the failure of herlittle surprise and of the two and fourpence she had thrown away fornothing she nearly cried outright. 

But Joe said it didn't matter and made her sit down by the fire. Hewas very nice with her. He told her all that went on in his office, repeating for her a smart answer which he had made to the manager. Mariadid not understand why Joe laughed so much over the answer he had madebut she said that the manager must have been a very overbearing personto deal with. Joe said he wasn't so bad when you knew how to take him, that he was a decent sort so long as you didn't rub him the wrong way. Mrs. Donnelly played the piano for the children and they danced andsang. Then the two next-door girls handed round the nuts. Nobody couldfind the nutcrackers and Joe was nearly getting cross over it and askedhow did they expect Maria to crack nuts without a nutcracker. But Mariasaid she didn't like nuts and that they weren't to bother about her. Then Joe asked would she take a bottle of stout and Mrs. Donnelly saidthere was port wine too in the house if she would prefer that. Mariasaid she would rather they didn't ask her to take anything: but Joeinsisted. 

So Maria let him have his way and they sat by the fire talking over oldtimes and Maria thought she would put in a good word for Alphy. But Joecried that God might strike him stone dead if ever he spoke a word tohis brother again and Maria said she was sorry she had mentioned thematter. Mrs. Donnelly told her husband it was a great shame for him tospeak that way of his own flesh and blood but Joe said that Alphy was nobrother of his and there was nearly being a row on the head of it. ButJoe said he would not lose his temper on account of the night it wasand asked his wife to open some more stout. The two next-door girlshad arranged some Hallow Eve games and soon everything was merry again. Maria was delighted to see the children so merry and Joe and his wife insuch good spirits. The next-door girls put some saucers on the tableand then led the children up to the table, blindfold. One got theprayer-book and the other three got the water; and when one of thenext-door girls got the ring Mrs. Donnelly shook her finger at theblushing girl as much as to say: O, I know all about it! They insistedthen on blindfolding Maria and leading her up to the table to seewhat she would get; and, while they were putting on the bandage, Marialaughed and laughed again till the tip of her nose nearly met the tip ofher chin. 

They led her up to the table amid laughing and joking and she put herhand out in the air as she was told to do. She moved her hand about hereand there in the air and descended on one of the saucers. She felt asoft wet substance with her fingers and was surprised that nobody spokeor took off her bandage. There was a pause for a few seconds; and thena great deal of scuffling and whispering. Somebody said something aboutthe garden, and at last Mrs. Donnelly said something very cross to oneof the next-door girls and told her to throw it out at once: that was noplay. Maria understood that it was wrong that time and so she had to doit over again: and this time she got the prayer-book. 

After that Mrs. Donnelly played Miss McCloud's Reel for the childrenand Joe made Maria take a glass of wine. Soon they were all quite merryagain and Mrs. Donnelly said Maria would enter a convent before the yearwas out because she had got the prayer-book. Maria had never seen Joeso nice to her as he was that night, so full of pleasant talk andreminiscences. She said they were all very good to her. 

At last the children grew tired and sleepy and Joe asked Maria would shenot sing some little song before she went, one of the old songs. Mrs. Donnelly said "Do, please, Maria!" and so Maria had to get up and standbeside the piano. Mrs. Donnelly bade the children be quiet and listento Maria's song. Then she played the prelude and said "Now, Maria!" andMaria, blushing very much began to sing in a tiny quavering voice. Shesang I Dreamt that I Dwelt, and when she came to the second verse shesang again:

 I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls With vassals and serfs at my side, And of all who assembled within those walls That I was the hope and the pride. 

 I had riches too great to count; could boast Of a high ancestral name, But I also dreamt, which pleased me most, That you loved me still the same. 

But no one tried to show her her mistake; and when she had ended hersong Joe was very much moved. He said that there was no time like thelong ago and no music for him like poor old Balfe, whatever other peoplemight say; and his eyes filled up so much with tears that he could notfind what he was looking for and in the end he had to ask his wife totell him where the corkscrew was. 

A PAINFUL CASE

MR. JAMES DUFFY lived in Chapelizod because he wished to live as far aspossible from the city of which he was a citizen and because he foundall the other suburbs of Dublin mean, modern and pretentious. He livedin an old sombre house and from his windows he could look into thedisused distillery or upwards along the shallow river on which Dublin isbuilt. The lofty walls of his uncarpeted room were free from pictures. He had himself bought every article of furniture in the room: a blackiron bedstead, an iron washstand, four cane chairs, a clothes-rack, a coal-scuttle, a fender and irons and a square table on which lay adouble desk. A bookcase had been made in an alcove by means of shelvesof white wood. The bed was clothed with white bedclothes and a blackand scarlet rug covered the foot. A little hand-mirror hung above thewashstand and during the day a white-shaded lamp stood as the soleornament of the mantelpiece. The books on the white wooden shelves werearranged from below upwards according to bulk. A complete Wordsworthstood at one end of the lowest shelf and a copy of the MaynoothCatechism, sewn into the cloth cover of a notebook, stood at one end ofthe top shelf. Writing materials were always on the desk. In the desklay a manuscript translation of Hauptmann's Michael Kramer, the stagedirections of which were written in purple ink, and a little sheaf ofpapers held together by a brass pin. In these sheets a sentence wasinscribed from time to time and, in an ironical moment, the headline ofan advertisement for Bile Beans had been pasted on to the first sheet. On lifting the lid of the desk a faint fragrance escaped--the fragranceof new cedarwood pencils or of a bottle of gum or of an overripe applewhich might have been left there and forgotten. 

Mr. Duffy abhorred anything which betokened physical or mental disorder. A mediaeval doctor would have called him saturnine. His face, whichcarried the entire tale of his years, was of the brown tint of Dublinstreets. On his long and rather large head grew dry black hair and atawny moustache did not quite cover an unamiable mouth. His cheekbonesalso gave his face a harsh character; but there was no harshness in theeyes which, looking at the world from under their tawny eyebrows, gavethe impression of a man ever alert to greet a redeeming instinct inothers but often disappointed. He lived at a little distance from hisbody, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glasses. He had an oddautobiographical habit which led him to compose in his mind from timeto time a short sentence about himself containing a subject in the thirdperson and a predicate in the past tense. He never gave alms to beggarsand walked firmly, carrying a stout hazel. 

He had been for many years cashier of a private bank in Baggot Street. Every morning he came in from Chapelizod by tram. At midday he wentto Dan Burke's and took his lunch--a bottle of lager beer and a smalltrayful of arrowroot biscuits. At four o'clock he was set free. He dinedin an eating-house in George's Street where he felt himself safe fromthe society o Dublin's gilded youth and where there was a certain plainhonesty in the bill of fare. His evenings were spent either before hislandlady's piano or roaming about the outskirts of the city. His likingfor Mozart's music brought him sometimes to an opera or a concert: thesewere the only dissipations of his life. 

He had neither companions nor friends, church nor creed. He lived hisspiritual life without any communion with others, visiting his relativesat Christmas and escorting them to the cemetery when they died. Heperformed these two social duties for old dignity's sake but concedednothing further to the conventions which regulate the civic life. Heallowed himself to think that in certain circumstances he would robhis hank but, as these circumstances never arose, his life rolled outevenly--an adventureless tale. 

One evening he found himself sitting beside two ladies in the Rotunda. The house, thinly peopled and silent, gave distressing prophecy offailure. The lady who sat next him looked round at the deserted houseonce or twice and then said:

"What a pity there is such a poor house tonight! It's so hard on peopleto have to sing to empty benches. "

He took the remark as an invitation to talk. He was surprised thatshe seemed so little awkward. While they talked he tried to fix herpermanently in his memory. When he learned that the young girl besideher was her daughter he judged her to be a year or so younger thanhimself. Her face, which must have been handsome, had remainedintelligent. It was an oval face with strongly marked features. The eyeswere very dark blue and steady. Their gaze began with a defiant notebut was confused by what seemed a deliberate swoon of the pupil into theiris, revealing for an instant a temperament of great sensibility. Thepupil reasserted itself quickly, this half-disclosed nature fell againunder the reign of prudence, and her astrakhan jacket, moulding a bosomof a certain fullness, struck the note of defiance more definitely. 

He met her again a few weeks afterwards at a concert in EarlsfortTerrace and seized the moments when her daughter's attention wasdiverted to become intimate. She alluded once or twice to her husbandbut her tone was not such as to make the allusion a warning. Her namewas Mrs. Sinico. Her husband's great-great-grandfather had come fromLeghorn. Her husband was captain of a mercantile boat plying betweenDublin and Holland; and they had one child. 

Meeting her a third time by accident he found courage to make anappointment. She came. This was the first of many meetings; they metalways in the evening and chose the most quiet quarters for their walkstogether. Mr. Duffy, however, had a distaste for underhand ways and, finding that they were compelled to meet stealthily, he forced her toask him to her house. Captain Sinico encouraged his visits, thinkingthat his daughter's hand was in question. He had dismissed his wife sosincerely from his gallery of pleasures that he did not suspect thatanyone else would take an interest in her. As the husband was oftenaway and the daughter out giving music lessons Mr. Duffy had manyopportunities of enjoying the lady's society. Neither he nor she had hadany such adventure before and neither was conscious of any incongruity. Little by little he entangled his thoughts with hers. He lent her books, provided her with ideas, shared his intellectual life with her. Shelistened to all. 

Sometimes in return for his theories she gave out some fact of her ownlife. With almost maternal solicitude she urged him to let his natureopen to the full: she became his confessor. He told her that for sometime he had assisted at the meetings of an Irish Socialist Party wherehe had felt himself a unique figure amidst a score of sober workmen ina garret lit by an inefficient oil-lamp. When the party had divided intothree sections, each under its own leader and in its own garret, he haddiscontinued his attendances. The workmen's discussions, he said, were too timorous; the interest they took in the question of wages wasinordinate. He felt that they were hard-featured realists and that theyresented an exactitude which was the produce of a leisure not withintheir reach. No social revolution, he told her, would be likely tostrike Dublin for some centuries. 

She asked him why did he not write out his thoughts. For what, he askedher, with careful scorn. To compete with phrasemongers, incapable ofthinking consecutively for sixty seconds? To submit himself to thecriticisms of an obtuse middle class which entrusted its morality topolicemen and its fine arts to impresarios?

He went often to her little cottage outside Dublin; often they spenttheir evenings alone. Little by little, as their thoughts entangled, they spoke of subjects less remote. Her companionship was like a warmsoil about an exotic. Many times she allowed the dark to fall uponthem, refraining from lighting the lamp. The dark discreet room, theirisolation, the music that still vibrated in their ears united them. This union exalted him, wore away the rough edges of his character, emotionalised his mental life. Sometimes he caught himself listening tothe sound of his own voice. He thought that in her eyes he would ascendto an angelical stature; and, as he attached the fervent nature of hiscompanion more and more closely to him, he heard the strange impersonalvoice which he recognised as his own, insisting on the soul's incurableloneliness. We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own. The endof these discourses was that one night during which she had shown everysign of unusual excitement, Mrs. Sinico caught up his hand passionatelyand pressed it to her cheek. 

Mr. Duffy was very much surprised. Her interpretation of his wordsdisillusioned him. He did not visit her for a week, then he wrote to herasking her to meet him. As he did not wish their last interview to betroubled by the influence of their ruined confessional they meet in alittle cakeshop near the Parkgate. It was cold autumn weather but inspite of the cold they wandered up and down the roads of the Park fornearly three hours. They agreed to break off their intercourse: everybond, he said, is a bond to sorrow. When they came out of the Park theywalked in silence towards the tram; but here she began to trembleso violently that, fearing another collapse on her part, he bade hergood-bye quickly and left her. A few days later he received a parcelcontaining his books and music. 

Four years passed. Mr. Duffy returned to his even way of life. His roomstill bore witness of the orderliness of his mind. Some new pieces ofmusic encumbered the music-stand in the lower room and on his shelvesstood two volumes by Nietzsche: Thus Spake Zarathustra and The GayScience. He wrote seldom in the sheaf of papers which lay in his desk. One of his sentences, written two months after his last interview withMrs. Sinico, read: Love between man and man is impossible because theremust not be sexual intercourse and friendship between man and woman isimpossible because there must be sexual intercourse. He kept away fromconcerts lest he should meet her. His father died; the junior partner ofthe bank retired. And still every morning he went into the city bytram and every evening walked home from the city after having dinedmoderately in George's Street and read the evening paper for dessert. 

One evening as he was about to put a morsel of corned beef and cabbageinto his mouth his hand stopped. His eyes fixed themselves on aparagraph in the evening paper which he had propped against thewater-carafe. He replaced the morsel of food on his plate and read theparagraph attentively. Then he drank a glass of water, pushed his plateto one side, doubled the paper down before him between his elbows andread the paragraph over and over again. The cabbage began to deposit acold white grease on his plate. The girl came over to him to ask washis dinner not properly cooked. He said it was very good and ate a fewmouthfuls of it with difficulty. Then he paid his bill and went out. 

He walked along quickly through the November twilight, his stout hazelstick striking the ground regularly, the fringe of the buff Mail peepingout of a side-pocket of his tight reefer overcoat. On the lonely roadwhich leads from the Parkgate to Chapelizod he slackened his pace. His stick struck the ground less emphatically and his breath, issuingirregularly, almost with a sighing sound, condensed in the wintry air. When he reached his house he went up at once to his bedroom and, takingthe paper from his pocket, read the paragraph again by the failing lightof the window. He read it not aloud, but moving his lips as a priestdoes when he reads the prayers Secreto. This was the paragraph:

 DEATH OF A LADY AT SYDNEY PARADE A PAINFUL CASE

Today at the City of Dublin Hospital the Deputy Coroner (in the absenceof Mr. Leverett) held an inquest on the body of Mrs. Emily Sinico, agedforty-three years, who was killed at Sydney Parade Station yesterdayevening. The evidence showed that the deceased lady, while attempting tocross the line, was knocked down by the engine of the ten o'clock slowtrain from Kingstown, thereby sustaining injuries of the head and rightside which led to her death. 

James Lennon, driver of the engine, stated that he had been in theemployment of the railway company for fifteen years. On hearingthe guard's whistle he set the train in motion and a second or twoafterwards brought it to rest in response to loud cries. The train wasgoing slowly. 

P. Dunne, railway porter, stated that as the train was about to start heobserved a woman attempting to cross the lines. He ran towards her andshouted, but, before he could reach her, she was caught by the buffer ofthe engine and fell to the ground. 

A juror. "You saw the lady fall?"

Witness. "Yes. "

Police Sergeant Croly deposed that when he arrived he found the deceasedlying on the platform apparently dead. He had the body taken to thewaiting-room pending the arrival of the ambulance. 

Constable 57 corroborated. 

Dr. Halpin, assistant house surgeon of the City of Dublin Hospital, stated that the deceased had two lower ribs fractured and had sustainedsevere contusions of the right shoulder. The right side of the headhad been injured in the fall. The injuries were not sufficient tohave caused death in a normal person. Death, in his opinion, had beenprobably due to shock and sudden failure of the heart's action. 

Mr. H. B. Patterson Finlay, on behalf of the railway company, expressedhis deep regret at the accident. The company had always taken everyprecaution to prevent people crossing the lines except by the bridges, both by placing notices in every station and by the use of patent springgates at level crossings. The deceased had been in the habit of crossingthe lines late at night from platform to platform and, in view ofcertain other circumstances of the case, he did not think the railwayofficials were to blame. 

Captain Sinico, of Leoville, Sydney Parade, husband of the deceased, also gave evidence. He stated that the deceased was his wife. He wasnot in Dublin at the time of the accident as he had arrived only thatmorning from Rotterdam. They had been married for twenty-two years andhad lived happily until about two years ago when his wife began to berather intemperate in her habits. 

Miss Mary Sinico said that of late her mother had been in the habitof going out at night to buy spirits. She, witness, had often tried toreason with her mother and had induced her to join a League. She was notat home until an hour after the accident. The jury returned a verdictin accordance with the medical evidence and exonerated Lennon from allblame. 

The Deputy Coroner said it was a most painful case, and expressed greatsympathy with Captain Sinico and his daughter. He urged on the railwaycompany to take strong measures to prevent the possibility of similaraccidents in the future. No blame attached to anyone. 

Mr. Duffy raised his eyes from the paper and gazed out of his window onthe cheerless evening landscape. The river lay quiet beside the emptydistillery and from time to time a light appeared in some house on theLucan road. What an end! The whole narrative of her death revolted himand it revolted him to think that he had ever spoken to her of what heheld sacred. The threadbare phrases, the inane expressions of sympathy, the cautious words of a reporter won over to conceal the details ofa commonplace vulgar death attacked his stomach. Not merely had shedegraded herself; she had degraded him. He saw the squalid tract of hervice, miserable and malodorous. His soul's companion! He thought ofthe hobbling wretches whom he had seen carrying cans and bottles tobe filled by the barman. Just God, what an end! Evidently she had beenunfit to live, without any strength of purpose, an easy prey to habits, one of the wrecks on which civilisation has been reared. But that shecould have sunk so low! Was it possible he had deceived himselfso utterly about her? He remembered her outburst of that night andinterpreted it in a harsher sense than he had ever done. He had nodifficulty now in approving of the course he had taken. 

As the light failed and his memory began to wander he thought her handtouched his. The shock which had first attacked his stomach was nowattacking his nerves. He put on his overcoat and hat quickly and wentout. The cold air met him on the threshold; it crept into the sleeves ofhis coat. When he came to the public-house at Chapelizod Bridge he wentin and ordered a hot punch. 

The proprietor served him obsequiously but did not venture to talk. There were five or six workingmen in the shop discussing the value of agentleman's estate in County Kildare They drank at intervals from theirhuge pint tumblers and smoked, spitting often on the floor and sometimesdragging the sawdust over their spits with their heavy boots. Mr. Duffysat on his stool and gazed at them, without seeing or hearing them. After a while they went out and he called for another punch. He sat along time over it. The shop was very quiet. The proprietor sprawled onthe counter reading the Herald and yawning. Now and again a tram washeard swishing along the lonely road outside. 

As he sat there, living over his life with her and evoking alternatelythe two images in which he now conceived her, he realised that she wasdead, that she had ceased to exist, that she had become a memory. Hebegan to feel ill at ease. He asked himself what else could he havedone. He could not have carried on a comedy of deception with her; hecould not have lived with her openly. He had done what seemed to himbest. How was he to blame? Now that she was gone he understood howlonely her life must have been, sitting night after night alone in thatroom. His life would be lonely too until he, too, died, ceased to exist, became a memory--if anyone remembered him. 

It was after nine o'clock when he left the shop. The night was cold andgloomy. He entered the Park by the first gate and walked along under thegaunt trees. He walked through the bleak alleys where they had walkedfour years before. She seemed to be near him in the darkness. At momentshe seemed to feel her voice touch his ear, her hand touch his. He stoodstill to listen. Why had he withheld life from her? Why had he sentencedher to death? He felt his moral nature falling to pieces. 

When he gained the crest of the Magazine Hill he halted and lookedalong the river towards Dublin, the lights of which burned redly andhospitably in the cold night. He looked down the slope and, at the base, in the shadow of the wall of the Park, he saw some human figures lying. Those venal and furtive loves filled him with despair. He gnawed therectitude of his life; he felt that he had been outcast from life'sfeast. One human being had seemed to love him and he had denied her lifeand happiness: he had sentenced her to ignominy, a death of shame. Heknew that the prostrate creatures down by the wall were watching him andwished him gone. No one wanted him; he was outcast from life's feast. He turned his eyes to the grey gleaming river, winding along towardsDublin. Beyond the river he saw a goods train winding out of KingsbridgeStation, like a worm with a fiery head winding through the darkness, obstinately and laboriously. It passed slowly out of sight; but stillhe heard in his ears the laborious drone of the engine reiterating thesyllables of her name. 

He turned back the way he had come, the rhythm of the engine poundingin his ears. He began to doubt the reality of what memory told him. Hehalted under a tree and allowed the rhythm to die away. He could notfeel her near him in the darkness nor her voice touch his ear. Hewaited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night wasperfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that hewas alone. 

IVY DAY IN THE COMMITTEE ROOM

OLD JACK raked the cinders together with a piece of cardboard and spreadthem judiciously over the whitening dome of coals. When the dome wasthinly covered his face lapsed into darkness but, as he set himself tofan the fire again, his crouching shadow ascended the opposite wall andhis face slowly reemerged into light. It was an old man's face, verybony and hairy. The moist blue eyes blinked at the fire and the moistmouth fell open at times, munching once or twice mechanically whenit closed. When the cinders had caught he laid the piece of cardboardagainst the wall, sighed and said:

"That's better now, Mr. O'Connor. "

Mr. O'Connor, a grey-haired young man, whose face was disfigured by manyblotches and pimples, had just brought the tobacco for a cigaretteinto a shapely cylinder but when spoken to he undid his handiworkmeditatively. Then he began to roll the tobacco again meditatively andafter a moment's thought decided to lick the paper. 

"Did Mr. Tierney say when he'd be back?" he asked in a sky falsetto. 

"He didn't say. "

Mr. O'Connor put his cigarette into his mouth and began search hispockets. He took out a pack of thin pasteboard cards. 

"I'll get you a match, " said the old man. 

"Never mind, this'll do, " said Mr. O'Connor. 

He selected one of the cards and read what was printed on it:

 MUNICIPAL ELECTIONS ---------- ROYAL EXCHANGE WARD ----------

Mr. Richard J. Tierney, P. L. G. , respectfully solicits the favour of yourvote and influence at the coming election in the Royal Exchange Ward. 

Mr. O'Connor had been engaged by Tierney's agent to canvass one part ofthe ward but, as the weather was inclement and his boots let in the wet, he spent a great part of the day sitting by the fire in the CommitteeRoom in Wicklow Street with Jack, the old caretaker. They had beensitting thus since e short day had grown dark. It was the sixth ofOctober, dismal and cold out of doors. 

Mr. O'Connor tore a strip off the card and, lighting it, lit hiscigarette. As he did so the flame lit up a leaf of dark glossy ivy thelapel of his coat. The old man watched him attentively and then, takingup the piece of cardboard again, began to fan the fire slowly while hiscompanion smoked. 

"Ah, yes, " he said, continuing, "it's hard to know what way to bringup children. Now who'd think he'd turn out like that! I sent him tothe Christian Brothers and I done what I could him, and there he goesboosing about. I tried to make him someway decent. "

He replaced the cardboard wearily. 

"Only I'm an old man now I'd change his tune for him. I'd take the stickto his back and beat him while I could stand over him--as I done manya time before. The mother, you know, she cocks him up with this andthat. . . . "

"That's what ruins children, " said Mr. O'Connor. 

"To be sure it is, " said the old man. "And little thanks you get for it, only impudence. He takes th'upper hand of me whenever he sees I've asup taken. What's the world coming to when sons speaks that way to theirfathers?"

"What age is he?" said Mr. O'Connor. 

"Nineteen, " said the old man. 

"Why don't you put him to something?"

"Sure, amn't I never done at the drunken bowsy ever since he leftschool? 'I won't keep you, ' I says. 'You must get a job for yourself. 'But, sure, it's worse whenever he gets a job; he drinks it all. "

Mr. O'Connor shook his head in sympathy, and the old man fell silent, gazing into the fire. Someone opened the door of the room and calledout:

"Hello! Is this a Freemason's meeting?"

"Who's that?" said the old man. 

"What are you doing in the dark?" asked a voice. 

"Is that you, Hynes?" asked Mr. O'Connor. 

"Yes. What are you doing in the dark?" said Mr. Hynes. Advancing intothe light of the fire. 

He was a tall, slender young man with a light brown moustache. Imminentlittle drops of rain hung at the brim of his hat and the collar of hisjacket-coat was turned up. 

"Well, Mat, " he said to Mr. O'Connor, "how goes it?"

Mr. O'Connor shook his head. The old man left the hearth and afterstumbling about the room returned with two candlesticks which he thrustone after the other into the fire and carried to the table. A denudedroom came into view and the fire lost all its cheerful colour. The wallsof the room were bare except for a copy of an election address. In themiddle of the room was a small table on which papers were heaped. 

Mr. Hynes leaned against the mantelpiece and asked:

"Has he paid you yet?"

"Not yet, " said Mr. O'Connor. "I hope to God he'll not leave us in thelurch tonight. "

Mr. Hynes laughed. 

"O, he'll pay you. Never fear, " he said. 

"I hope he'll look smart about it if he means business, " said Mr. O'Connor. 

"What do you think, Jack?" said Mr. Hynes satirically to the old man. 

The old man returned to his seat by the fire, saying:

"It isn't but he has it, anyway. Not like the other tinker. "

"What other tinker?" said Mr. Hynes. 

"Colgan, " said the old man scornfully. 

"It is because Colgan's a working--man you say that? What's thedifference between a good honest bricklayer and a publican--eh? Hasn'tthe working-man as good a right to be in the Corporation as anyoneelse--ay, and a better right than those shoneens that are always hat inhand before any fellow with a handle to his name? Isn't that so, Mat?"said Mr. Hynes, addressing Mr. O'Connor. 

"I think you're right, " said Mr. O'Connor. 

"One man is a plain honest man with no hunker-sliding about him. He goesin to represent the labour classes. This fellow you're working for onlywants to get some job or other. "

"Of course, the working-classes should be represented, " said the oldman. 

"The working-man, " said Mr. Hynes, "gets all kicks and no halfpence. Butit's labour produces everything. The workingman is not looking for fatjobs for his sons and nephews and cousins. The working-man is not goingto drag the honour of Dublin in the mud to please a German monarch. "

"How's that?" said the old man. 

"Don't you know they want to present an address of welcome to EdwardRex if he comes here next year? What do we want kowtowing to a foreignking?"

"Our man won't vote for the address, " said Mr. O'Connor. "He goes in onthe Nationalist ticket. "

"Won't he?" said Mr. Hynes. "Wait till you see whether he will or not. Iknow him. Is it Tricky Dicky Tierney?"

"By God! perhaps you're right, Joe, " said Mr. O'Connor. "Anyway, I wishhe'd turn up with the spondulics. "

The three men fell silent. The old man began to rake more cinderstogether. Mr. Hynes took off his hat, shook it and then turned down thecollar of his coat, displaying, as he did so, an ivy leaf in the lapel. 

"If this man was alive, " he said, pointing to the leaf, "we'd have notalk of an address of welcome. "

"That's true, " said Mr. O'Connor. 

"Musha, God be with them times!" said the old man. "There was some lifein it then. "

The room was silent again. Then a bustling little man with a snufflingnose and very cold ears pushed in the door. He walked over quickly tothe fire, rubbing his hands as if he intended to produce a spark fromthem. 

"No money, boys, " he said. 

"Sit down here, Mr. Henchy, " said the old man, offering him his chair. 

"O, don't stir, Jack, don't stir, " said Mr. Henchy

He nodded curtly to Mr. Hynes and sat down on the chair which the oldman vacated. 

"Did you serve Aungier Street?" he asked Mr. O'Connor. 

"Yes, " said Mr. O'Connor, beginning to search his pockets for memoranda. 

"Did you call on Grimes?"

"I did. "

"Well? How does he stand?"

"He wouldn't promise. He said: 'I won't tell anyone what way I'm goingto vote. ' But I think he'll be all right. "

"Why so?"

"He asked me who the nominators were; and I told him. I mentioned FatherBurke's name. I think it'll be all right. "

Mr. Henchy began to snuffle and to rub his hands over the fire at aterrific speed. Then he said:

"For the love of God, Jack, bring us a bit of coal. There must be someleft. "

The old man went out of the room. 

"It's no go, " said Mr. Henchy, shaking his head. "I asked the littleshoeboy, but he said: 'Oh, now, Mr. Henchy, when I see work going onproperly I won't forget you, you may be sure. ' Mean little tinker!'Usha, how could he be anything else?"

"What did I tell you, Mat?" said Mr. Hynes. "Tricky Dicky Tierney. "

"O, he's as tricky as they make 'em, " said Mr. Henchy. "He hasn't gotthose little pigs' eyes for nothing. Blast his soul! Couldn't he payup like a man instead of: 'O, now, Mr. Henchy, I must speak to Mr. Fanning. . . . I've spent a lot of money'? Mean little schoolboy of hell! Isuppose he forgets the time his little old father kept the hand-me-downshop in Mary's Lane. "

"But is that a fact?" asked Mr. O'Connor. 

"God, yes, " said Mr. Henchy. "Did you never hear that? And the menused to go in on Sunday morning before the houses were open to buy awaistcoat or a trousers--moya! But Tricky Dicky's little old fatheralways had a tricky little black bottle up in a corner. Do you mind now?That's that. That's where he first saw the light. "

The old man returned with a few lumps of coal which he placed here andthere on the fire. 

"Thats a nice how-do-you-do, " said Mr. O'Connor. "How does he expect usto work for him if he won't stump up?"

"I can't help it, " said Mr. Henchy. "I expect to find the bailiffs inthe hall when I go home. "

Mr. Hynes laughed and, shoving himself away from the mantelpiece withthe aid of his shoulders, made ready to leave. 

"It'll be all right when King Eddie comes, " he said. "Well boys, I'm offfor the present. See you later. 'Bye, 'bye. "

He went out of the room slowly. Neither Mr. Henchy nor the old man saidanything, but, just as the door was closing, Mr. O'Connor, who had beenstaring moodily into the fire, called out suddenly:

"'Bye, Joe. "

Mr. Henchy waited a few moments and then nodded in the direction of thedoor. 

"Tell me, " he said across the fire, "what brings our friend in here?What does he want?"

"'Usha, poor Joe!" said Mr. O'Connor, throwing the end of his cigaretteinto the fire, "he's hard up, like the rest of us. "

Mr. Henchy snuffled vigorously and spat so copiously that he nearly putout the fire, which uttered a hissing protest. 

"To tell you my private and candid opinion, " he said, "I think he's aman from the other camp. He's a spy of Colgan's, if you ask me. Just goround and try and find out how they're getting on. They won't suspectyou. Do you twig?"

"Ah, poor Joe is a decent skin, " said Mr. O'Connor. 

"His father was a decent, respectable man, " Mr. Henchy admitted. "Poorold Larry Hynes! Many a good turn he did in his day! But I'm greatlyafraid our friend is not nineteen carat. Damn it, I can understand afellow being hard up, but what I can't understand is a fellow sponging. Couldn't he have some spark of manhood about him?"

"He doesn't get a warm welcome from me when he comes, " said the old man. "Let him work for his own side and not come spying around here. "

"I don't know, " said Mr. O'Connor dubiously, as he took outcigarette-papers and tobacco. "I think Joe Hynes is a straight man. He's a clever chap, too, with the pen. Do you remember that thing hewrote. . . ?"

"Some of these hillsiders and fenians are a bit too clever if ask me, "said Mr. Henchy. "Do you know what my private and candid opinion isabout some of those little jokers? I believe half of them are in the payof the Castle. "

"There's no knowing, " said the old man. 

"O, but I know it for a fact, " said Mr. Henchy. "They're Castlehacks. . . . I don't say Hynes. . . . No, damn it, I think he's a stroke abovethat. . . . But there's a certain little nobleman with a cock-eye--you knowthe patriot I'm alluding to?"

Mr. O'Connor nodded. 

"There's a lineal descendant of Major Sirr for you if you like! O, theheart's blood of a patriot! That's a fellow now that'd sell his countryfor fourpence--ay--and go down on his bended knees and thank theAlmighty Christ he had a country to sell. "

There was a knock at the door. 

"Come in!" said Mr. Henchy. 

A person resembling a poor clergyman or a poor actor appeared in thedoorway. His black clothes were tightly buttoned on his short bodyand it was impossible to say whether he wore a clergyman's collar ora layman's, because the collar of his shabby frock-coat, the uncoveredbuttons of which reflected the candlelight, was turned up about hisneck. He wore a round hat of hard black felt. His face, shining withraindrops, had the appearance of damp yellow cheese save where two rosyspots indicated the cheekbones. He opened his very long mouth suddenlyto express disappointment and at the same time opened wide his verybright blue eyes to express pleasure and surprise. 

"O Father Keon!" said Mr. Henchy, jumping up from his chair. "Is thatyou? Come in!"

"O, no, no, no!" said Father Keon quickly, pursing his lips as if hewere addressing a child. 

"Won't you come in and sit down?"

"No, no, no!" said Father Keon, speaking in a discreet, indulgent, velvety voice. "Don't let me disturb you now! I'm just looking for Mr. Fanning. . . . "

"He's round at the Black Eagle, " said Mr. Henchy. "But won't you come inand sit down a minute?"

"No, no, thank you. It was just a little business matter, " said FatherKeon. "Thank you, indeed. "

He retreated from the doorway and Mr. Henchy, seizing one of thecandlesticks, went to the door to light him downstairs. 

"O, don't trouble, I beg!"

"No, but the stairs is so dark. "

"No, no, I can see. . . . Thank you, indeed. "

"Are you right now?"

"All right, thanks. . . . Thanks. "

Mr. Henchy returned with the candlestick and put it on the table. He satdown again at the fire. There was silence for a few moments. 

"Tell me, John, " said Mr. O'Connor, lighting his cigarette with anotherpasteboard card. 

"Hm?"

"What he is exactly?"

"Ask me an easier one, " said Mr. Henchy. 

"Fanning and himself seem to me very thick. They're often in Kavanagh'stogether. Is he a priest at all?"

"Mmmyes, I believe so. . . . I think he's what you call black sheep. We haven't many of them, thank God! but we have a few. . . . He's anunfortunate man of some kind. . . . "

"And how does he knock it out?" asked Mr. O'Connor. 

"That's another mystery. "

"Is he attached to any chapel or church or institution or---"

"No, " said Mr. Henchy, "I think he's travelling on his own account. . . . God forgive me, " he added, "I thought he was the dozen of stout. "

"Is there any chance of a drink itself?" asked Mr. O'Connor. 

"I'm dry too, " said the old man. 

"I asked that little shoeboy three times, " said Mr. Henchy, "would hesend up a dozen of stout. I asked him again now, but he was leaningon the counter in his shirt-sleeves having a deep goster with AldermanCowley. "

"Why didn't you remind him?" said Mr. O'Connor. 

"Well, I couldn't go over while he was talking to Alderman Cowley. Ijust waited till I caught his eye, and said: 'About that little matter Iwas speaking to you about. . . . ' 'That'll be all right, Mr. H. , ' he said. Yerra, sure the little hop-o'-my-thumb has forgotten all about it. "

"There's some deal on in that quarter, " said Mr. O'Connor thoughtfully. "I saw the three of them hard at it yesterday at Suffolk Street corner. "

"I think I know the little game they're at, " said Mr. Henchy. "You mustowe the City Fathers money nowadays if you want to be made Lord Mayor. Then they'll make you Lord Mayor. By God! I'm thinking seriously ofbecoming a City Father myself. What do you think? Would I do for thejob?"

Mr. O'Connor laughed. 

"So far as owing money goes. . . . "

"Driving out of the Mansion House, " said Mr. Henchy, "in all my vermin, with Jack here standing up behind me in a powdered wig--eh?"

"And make me your private secretary, John. "

"Yes. And I'll make Father Keon my private chaplain. We'll have a familyparty. "

"Faith, Mr. Henchy, " said the old man, "you'd keep up better style thansome of them. I was talking one day to old Keegan, the porter. 'Andhow do you like your new master, Pat?' says I to him. 'You haven't muchentertaining now, ' says I. 'Entertaining!' says he. 'He'd live on thesmell of an oil-rag. ' And do you know what he told me? Now, I declare toGod I didn't believe him. "

"What?" said Mr. Henchy and Mr. O'Connor. 

"He told me: 'What do you think of a Lord Mayor of Dublin sending outfor a pound of chops for his dinner? How's that for high living?' sayshe. 'Wisha! wisha, ' says I. 'A pound of chops, ' says he, 'coming intothe Mansion House. ' 'Wisha!' says I, 'what kind of people is going atall now?"

At this point there was a knock at the door, and a boy put in his head. 

"What is it?" said the old man. 

"From the Black Eagle, " said the boy, walking in sideways and depositinga basket on the floor with a noise of shaken bottles. 

The old man helped the boy to transfer the bottles from the basket tothe table and counted the full tally. After the transfer the boy put hisbasket on his arm and asked:

"Any bottles?"

"What bottles?" said the old man. 

"Won't you let us drink them first?" said Mr. Henchy. 

"I was told to ask for the bottles. "

"Come back tomorrow, " said the old man. 

"Here, boy!" said Mr. Henchy, "will you run over to O'Farrell's and askhim to lend us a corkscrew--for Mr. Henchy, say. Tell him we won't keepit a minute. Leave the basket there. "

The boy went out and Mr. Henchy began to rub his hands cheerfully, saying:

"Ah, well, he's not so bad after all. He's as good as his word, anyhow. "

"There's no tumblers, " said the old man. 

"O, don't let that trouble you, Jack, " said Mr. Henchy. "Many's the goodman before now drank out of the bottle. "

"Anyway, it's better than nothing, " said Mr. O'Connor. 

"He's not a bad sort, " said Mr. Henchy, "only Fanning has such a loan ofhim. He means well, you know, in his own tinpot way. "

The boy came back with the corkscrew. The old man opened three bottlesand was handing back the corkscrew when Mr. Henchy said to the boy:

"Would you like a drink, boy?"

"If you please, sir, " said the boy. 

The old man opened another bottle grudgingly, and handed it to the boy. 

"What age are you?" he asked. 

"Seventeen, " said the boy. 

As the old man said nothing further, the boy took the bottle and said:"Here's my best respects, sir, to Mr. Henchy, " drank the contents, putthe bottle back on the table and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Thenhe took up the corkscrew and went out of the door sideways, mutteringsome form of salutation. 

"That's the way it begins, " said the old man. 

"The thin edge of the wedge, " said Mr. Henchy. 

The old man distributed the three bottles which he had opened and themen drank from them simultaneously. After having drank each placed hisbottle on the mantelpiece within hand's reach and drew in a long breathof satisfaction. 

"Well, I did a good day's work today, " said Mr. Henchy, after a pause. 

"That so, John?"

"Yes. I got him one or two sure things in Dawson Street, Crofton andmyself. Between ourselves, you know, Crofton (he's a decent chap, ofcourse), but he's not worth a damn as a canvasser. He hasn't a wordto throw to a dog. He stands and looks at the people while I do thetalking. "

Here two men entered the room. One of them was a very fat man whose blueserge clothes seemed to be in danger of falling from his sloping figure. He had a big face which resembled a young ox's face in expression, staring blue eyes and a grizzled moustache. The other man, who was muchyounger and frailer, had a thin, clean-shaven face. He wore a very highdouble collar and a wide-brimmed bowler hat. 

"Hello, Crofton!" said Mr. Henchy to the fat man. "Talk of the devil. . . "

"Where did the boose come from?" asked the young man. "Did the cowcalve?"

"O, of course, Lyons spots the drink first thing!" said Mr. O'Connor, laughing. 

"Is that the way you chaps canvass, " said Mr. Lyons, "and Crofton and Iout in the cold and rain looking for votes?"

"Why, blast your soul, " said Mr. Henchy, "I'd get more votes in fiveminutes than you two'd get in a week. "

"Open two bottles of stout, Jack, " said Mr. O'Connor. 

"How can I?" said the old man, "when there's no corkscrew?"

"Wait now, wait now!" said Mr. Henchy, getting up quickly. "Did you eversee this little trick?"

He took two bottles from the table and, carrying them to the fire, putthem on the hob. Then he sat down again by the fire and took anotherdrink from his bottle. Mr. Lyons sat on the edge of the table, pushedhis hat towards the nape of his neck and began to swing his legs. 

"Which is my bottle?" he asked. 

"This, lad, " said Mr. Henchy. 

Mr. Crofton sat down on a box and looked fixedly at the other bottle onthe hob. He was silent for two reasons. The first reason, sufficient initself, was that he had nothing to say; the second reason was thathe considered his companions beneath him. He had been a canvasser forWilkins, the Conservative, but when the Conservatives had withdrawntheir man and, choosing the lesser of two evils, given their support tothe Nationalist candidate, he had been engaged to work for Mr. Tiemey. 

In a few minutes an apologetic "Pok!" was heard as the cork flew outof Mr. Lyons' bottle. Mr. Lyons jumped off the table, went to the fire, took his bottle and carried it back to the table. 

"I was just telling them, Crofton, " said Mr. Henchy, "that we got a goodfew votes today. "

"Who did you get?" asked Mr. Lyons. 

"Well, I got Parkes for one, and I got Atkinson for two, and got Wardof Dawson Street. Fine old chap he is, too--regular old toff, oldConservative! 'But isn't your candidate a Nationalist?' said he. 'He's arespectable man, ' said I. 'He's in favour of whatever will benefit thiscountry. He's a big ratepayer, ' I said. 'He has extensive house propertyin the city and three places of business and isn't it to his ownadvantage to keep down the rates? He's a prominent and respectedcitizen, ' said I, 'and a Poor Law Guardian, and he doesn't belong to anyparty, good, bad, or indifferent. ' That's the way to talk to 'em. "

"And what about the address to the King?" said Mr. Lyons, after drinkingand smacking his lips. 

"Listen to me, " said Mr. Henchy. "What we want in thus country, as Isaid to old Ward, is capital. The King's coming here will mean an influxof money into this country. The citizens of Dublin will benefit by it. Look at all the factories down by the quays there, idle! Look at all themoney there is in the country if we only worked the old industries, themills, the ship-building yards and factories. It's capital we want. "

"But look here, John, " said Mr. O'Connor. "Why should we welcome theKing of England? Didn't Parnell himself. . . "

"Parnell, " said Mr. Henchy, "is dead. Now, here's the way I look at it. Here's this chap come to the throne after his old mother keeping him outof it till the man was grey. He's a man of the world, and he meanswell by us. He's a jolly fine decent fellow, if you ask me, and no damnnonsense about him. He just says to himself: 'The old one never wentto see these wild Irish. By Christ, I'll go myself and see what they'relike. ' And are we going to insult the man when he comes over here on afriendly visit? Eh? Isn't that right, Crofton?"

Mr. Crofton nodded his head. 

"But after all now, " said Mr. Lyons argumentatively, "King Edward'slife, you know, is not the very. . . "

"Let bygones be bygones, " said Mr. Henchy. "I admire the man personally. He's just an ordinary knockabout like you and me. He's fond of his glassof grog and he's a bit of a rake, perhaps, and he's a good sportsman. Damn it, can't we Irish play fair?"

"That's all very fine, " said Mr. Lyons. "But look at the case of Parnellnow. "

"In the name of God, " said Mr. Henchy, "where's the analogy between thetwo cases?"

"What I mean, " said Mr. Lyons, "is we have our ideals. Why, now, wouldwe welcome a man like that? Do you think now after what he did Parnellwas a fit man to lead us? And why, then, would we do it for Edward theSeventh?"

"This is Parnell's anniversary, " said Mr. O'Connor, "and don't letus stir up any bad blood. We all respect him now that he's dead andgone--even the Conservatives, " he added, turning to Mr. Crofton. 

Pok! The tardy cork flew out of Mr. Crofton's bottle. Mr. Crofton gotup from his box and went to the fire. As he returned with his capture hesaid in a deep voice:

"Our side of the house respects him, because he was a gentleman. "

"Right you are, Crofton!" said Mr. Henchy fiercely. "He was the only manthat could keep that bag of cats in order. 'Down, ye dogs! Lie down, yecurs!' That's the way he treated them. Come in, Joe! Come in!" he calledout, catching sight of Mr. Hynes in the doorway. 

Mr. Hynes came in slowly. 

"Open another bottle of stout, Jack, " said Mr. Henchy. "O, I forgotthere's no corkscrew! Here, show me one here and I'll put it at thefire. "

The old man handed him another bottle and he placed it on the hob. 

"Sit down, Joe, " said Mr. O'Connor, "we're just talking about theChief. "

"Ay, ay!" said Mr. Henchy. 

Mr. Hynes sat on the side of the table near Mr. Lyons but said nothing. 

"There's one of them, anyhow, " said Mr. Henchy, "that didn't renege him. By God, I'll say for you, Joe! No, by God, you stuck to him like a man!"

"O, Joe, " said Mr. O'Connor suddenly. "Give us that thing you wrote--doyou remember? Have you got it on you?"

"O, ay!" said Mr. Henchy. "Give us that. Did you ever hear that. Crofton? Listen to this now: splendid thing. "

"Go on, " said Mr. O'Connor. "Fire away, Joe. "

Mr. Hynes did not seem to remember at once the piece to which they werealluding, but, after reflecting a while, he said:

"O, that thing is it. . . . Sure, that's old now. "

"Out with it, man!" said Mr. O'Connor. 

"'Sh, 'sh, " said Mr. Henchy. "Now, Joe!"

Mr. Hynes hesitated a little longer. Then amid the silence he took offhis hat, laid it on the table and stood up. He seemed to be rehearsingthe piece in his mind. After a rather long pause he announced:

 THE DEATH OF PARNELL 6th October, 1891

He cleared his throat once or twice and then began to recite:

 He is dead. Our Uncrowned King is dead. O, Erin, mourn with grief and woe For he lies dead whom the fell gang Of modern hypocrites laid low. He lies slain by the coward hounds He raised to glory from the mire; And Erin's hopes and Erin's dreams Perish upon her monarch's pyre. In palace, cabin or in cot The Irish heart where'er it be Is bowed with woe--for he is gone Who would have wrought her destiny. He would have had his Erin famed, The green flag gloriously unfurled, Her statesmen, bards and warriors raised Before the nations of the World. He dreamed (alas, 'twas but a dream!) Of Liberty: but as he strove To clutch that idol, treachery Sundered him from the thing he loved. Shame on the coward, caitiff hands That smote their Lord or with a kiss Betrayed him to the rabble-rout Of fawning priests--no friends of his. May everlasting shame consume The memory of those who tried To befoul and smear the exalted name Of one who spurned them in his pride. He fell as fall the mighty ones, Nobly undaunted to the last, And death has now united him With Erin's heroes of the past. No sound of strife disturb his sleep! Calmly he rests: no human pain Or high ambition spurs him now The peaks of glory to attain. They had their way: they laid him low. But Erin, list, his spirit may Rise, like the Phoenix from the flames, When breaks the dawning of the day, The day that brings us Freedom's reign. And on that day may Erin well Pledge in the cup she lifts to Joy One grief--the memory of Parnell. 

Mr. Hynes sat down again on the table. When he had finished hisrecitation there was a silence and then a burst of clapping: even Mr. Lyons clapped. The applause continued for a little time. When it hadceased all the auditors drank from their bottles in silence. 

Pok! The cork flew out of Mr. Hynes' bottle, but Mr. Hynes remainedsitting flushed and bare-headed on the table. He did not seem to haveheard the invitation. 

"Good man, Joe!" said Mr. O'Connor, taking out his cigarette papers andpouch the better to hide his emotion. 

"What do you think of that, Crofton?" cried Mr. Henchy. "Isn't thatfine? What?"

Crofton said that it was a very fine piece of writing. 

A MOTHER

MR HOLOHAN, assistant secretary of the Eire Abu Society, had beenwalking up and down Dublin for nearly a month, with his hands andpockets full of dirty pieces of paper, arranging about the series ofconcerts. He had a game leg and for this his friends called him HoppyHolohan. He walked up and down constantly, stood by the hour at streetcorners arguing the point and made notes; but in the end it was Mrs. Kearney who arranged everything. 

Miss Devlin had become Mrs. Kearney out of spite. She had been educatedin a high-class convent, where she had learned French and music. Asshe was naturally pale and unbending in manner she made few friends atschool. When she came to the age of marriage she was sent out to manyhouses, where her playing and ivory manners were much admired. She satamid the chilly circle of her accomplishments, waiting for some suitorto brave it and offer her a brilliant life. But the young men whom shemet were ordinary and she gave them no encouragement, trying to consoleher romantic desires by eating a great deal of Turkish Delight insecret. However, when she drew near the limit and her friends beganto loosen their tongues about her, she silenced them by marrying Mr. Kearney, who was a bootmaker on Ormond Quay. 

He was much older than she. His conversation, which was serious, tookplace at intervals in his great brown beard. After the first year ofmarried life, Mrs. Kearney perceived that such a man would wear betterthan a romantic person, but she never put her own romantic ideas away. He was sober, thrifty and pious; he went to the altar every firstFriday, sometimes with her, oftener by himself. But she never weakenedin her religion and was a good wife to him. At some party in a strangehouse when she lifted her eyebrow ever so slightly he stood up to takehis leave and, when his cough troubled him, she put the eider-down quiltover his feet and made a strong rum punch. For his part, he was a modelfather. By paying a small sum every week into a society, he ensured forboth his daughters a dowry of one hundred pounds each when they came tothe age of twenty-four. He sent the older daughter, Kathleen, to a goodconvent, where she learned French and music, and afterward paid herfees at the Academy. Every year in the month of July Mrs. Kearney foundoccasion to say to some friend:

"My good man is packing us off to Skerries for a few weeks. "

If it was not Skerries it was Howth or Greystones. 

When the Irish Revival began to be appreciable Mrs. Kearney determinedto take advantage of her daughter's name and brought an Irish teacher tothe house. Kathleen and her sister sent Irish picture postcards to theirfriends and these friends sent back other Irish picture postcards. On special Sundays, when Mr. Kearney went with his family to thepro-cathedral, a little crowd of people would assemble after mass atthe corner of Cathedral Street. They were all friends of theKearneys--musical friends or Nationalist friends; and, when they hadplayed every little counter of gossip, they shook hands with oneanother all together, laughing at the crossing of so man hands, and saidgood-bye to one another in Irish. Soon the name of Miss Kathleen Kearneybegan to be heard often on people's lips. People said that she wasvery clever at music and a very nice girl and, moreover, that she wasa believer in the language movement. Mrs. Kearney was well content atthis. Therefore she was not surprised when one day Mr. Holohan came toher and proposed that her daughter should be the accompanist at aseries of four grand concerts which his Society was going to give in theAntient Concert Rooms. She brought him into the drawing-room, made himsit down and brought out the decanter and the silver biscuit-barrel. Sheentered heart and soul into the details of the enterprise, advised anddissuaded: and finally a contract was drawn up by which Kathleen was toreceive eight guineas for her services as accompanist at the four grandconcerts. 

As Mr. Holohan was a novice in such delicate matters as the wording ofbills and the disposing of items for a programme, Mrs. Kearney helpedhim. She had tact. She knew what artistes should go into capitals andwhat artistes should go into small type. She knew that the first tenorwould not like to come on after Mr. Meade's comic turn. To keep theaudience continually diverted she slipped the doubtful items in betweenthe old favourites. Mr. Holohan called to see her every day to have heradvice on some point. She was invariably friendly and advising--homely, in fact. She pushed the decanter towards him, saying:

"Now, help yourself, Mr. Holohan!"

And while he was helping himself she said:

"Don't be afraid! Don't be afraid of it!"

Everything went on smoothly. Mrs. Kearney bought some lovely blush-pinkcharmeuse in Brown Thomas's to let into the front of Kathleen's dress. It cost a pretty penny; but there are occasions when a little expenseis justifiable. She took a dozen of two-shilling tickets for the finalconcert and sent them to those friends who could not be trusted to comeotherwise. She forgot nothing, and, thanks to her, everything that wasto be done was done. 

The concerts were to be on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. When Mrs. Kearney arrived with her daughter at the Antient Concert Roomson Wednesday night she did not like the look of things. A few young men, wearing bright blue badges in their coats, stood idle in the vestibule;none of them wore evening dress. She passed by with her daughter and aquick glance through the open door of the hall showed her the cause ofthe stewards' idleness. At first she wondered had she mistaken the hour. No, it was twenty minutes to eight. 

In the dressing-room behind the stage she was introduced to thesecretary of the Society, Mr. Fitzpatrick. She smiled and shook hishand. He was a little man, with a white, vacant face. She noticed thathe wore his soft brown hat carelessly on the side of his head and thathis accent was flat. He held a programme in his hand, and, while he wastalking to her, he chewed one end of it into a moist pulp. He seemedto bear disappointments lightly. Mr. Holohan came into the dressingroomevery few minutes with reports from the box-office. The artistes talkedamong themselves nervously, glanced from time to time at the mirror androlled and unrolled their music. When it was nearly half-past eight, thefew people in the hall began to express their desire to be entertained. Mr. Fitzpatrick came in, smiled vacantly at the room, and said:

"Well now, ladies and gentlemen. I suppose we'd better open the ball. "

Mrs. Kearney rewarded his very flat final syllable with a quick stare ofcontempt, and then said to her daughter encouragingly:

"Are you ready, dear?"

When she had an opportunity, she called Mr. Holohan aside and asked himto tell her what it meant. Mr. Holohan did not know what it meant. He said that the committee had made a mistake in arranging for fourconcerts: four was too many. 

"And the artistes!" said Mrs. Kearney. "Of course they are doing theirbest, but really they are not good. "

Mr. Holohan admitted that the artistes were no good but the committee, he said, had decided to let the first three concerts go as they pleasedand reserve all the talent for Saturday night. Mrs. Kearney saidnothing, but, as the mediocre items followed one another on the platformand the few people in the hall grew fewer and fewer, she began to regretthat she had put herself to any expense for such a concert. There wassomething she didn't like in the look of things and Mr. Fitzpatrick'svacant smile irritated her very much. However, she said nothing andwaited to see how it would end. The concert expired shortly before ten, and everyone went home quickly. 

The concert on Thursday night was better attended, but Mrs. Kearneysaw at once that the house was filled with paper. The audience behavedindecorously, as if the concert were an informal dress rehearsal. Mr. Fitzpatrick seemed to enjoy himself; he was quite unconscious that Mrs. Kearney was taking angry note of his conduct. He stood at the edge ofthe screen, from time to time jutting out his head and exchanging alaugh with two friends in the corner of the balcony. In the course ofthe evening, Mrs. Kearney learned that the Friday concert was to beabandoned and that the committee was going to move heaven and earth tosecure a bumper house on Saturday night. When she heard this, she soughtout Mr. Holohan. She buttonholed him as he was limping out quickly witha glass of lemonade for a young lady and asked him was it true. Yes, itwas true. 

"But, of course, that doesn't alter the contract, " she said. "Thecontract was for four concerts. "

Mr. Holohan seemed to be in a hurry; he advised her to speak to Mr. Fitzpatrick. Mrs. Kearney was now beginning to be alarmed. She calledMr. Fitzpatrick away from his screen and told him that her daughter hadsigned for four concerts and that, of course, according to the termsof the contract, she should receive the sum originally stipulated for, whether the society gave the four concerts or not. Mr. Fitzpatrick, whodid not catch the point at issue very quickly, seemed unable to resolvethe difficulty and said that he would bring the matter before thecommittee. Mrs. Kearney's anger began to flutter in her cheek and shehad all she could do to keep from asking:

"And who is the Cometty pray?"

But she knew that it would not be ladylike to do that: so she wassilent. 

Little boys were sent out into the principal streets of Dublin early onFriday morning with bundles of handbills. Special puffs appeared in allthe evening papers, reminding the music loving public of the treat whichwas in store for it on the following evening. Mrs. Kearney wassomewhat reassured, but he thought well to tell her husband part ofher suspicions. He listened carefully and said that perhaps it would bebetter if he went with her on Saturday night. She agreed. She respectedher husband in the same way as she respected the General Post Office, assomething large, secure and fixed; and though she knew the small numberof his talents she appreciated his abstract value as a male. She wasglad that he had suggested coming with her. She thought her plans over. 

The night of the grand concert came. Mrs. Kearney, with her husband anddaughter, arrived at the Antient Concert Rooms three-quarters of an hourbefore the time at which the concert was to begin. By ill luck it was arainy evening. Mrs. Kearney placed her daughter's clothes and music incharge of her husband and went all over the building looking for Mr. Holohan or Mr. Fitzpatrick. She could find neither. She asked thestewards was any member of the committee in the hall and, after a greatdeal of trouble, a steward brought out a little woman named MissBeirne to whom Mrs. Kearney explained that she wanted to see one of thesecretaries. Miss Beirne expected them any minute and asked could she doanything. Mrs. Kearney looked searchingly at the oldish face which wasscrewed into an expression of trustfulness and enthusiasm and answered:

"No, thank you!"

The little woman hoped they would have a good house. She looked outat the rain until the melancholy of the wet street effaced all thetrustfulness and enthusiasm from her twisted features. Then she gave alittle sigh and said:

"Ah, well! We did our best, the dear knows. "

Mrs. Kearney had to go back to the dressing-room. 

The artistes were arriving. The bass and the second tenor had alreadycome. The bass, Mr. Duggan, was a slender young man with a scatteredblack moustache. He was the son of a hall porter in an office in thecity and, as a boy, he had sung prolonged bass notes in the resoundinghall. From this humble state he had raised himself until he had becomea first-rate artiste. He had appeared in grand opera. One night, when anoperatic artiste had fallen ill, he had undertaken the part of the kingin the opera of Maritana at the Queen's Theatre. He sang his music withgreat feeling and volume and was warmly welcomed by the gallery; but, unfortunately, he marred the good impression by wiping his nose in hisgloved hand once or twice out of thoughtlessness. He was unassuming andspoke little. He said yous so softly that it passed unnoticed and henever drank anything stronger than milk for his voice's sake. Mr. Bell, the second tenor, was a fair-haired little man who competed every yearfor prizes at the Feis Ceoil. On his fourth trial he had been awardeda bronze medal. He was extremely nervous and extremely jealous ofother tenors and he covered his nervous jealousy with an ebullientfriendliness. It was his humour to have people know what an ordeal aconcert was to him. Therefore when he saw Mr. Duggan he went over to himand asked:

"Are you in it too?"

"Yes, " said Mr. Duggan. 

Mr. Bell laughed at his fellow-sufferer, held out his hand and said:

"Shake!"

Mrs. Kearney passed by these two young men and went to the edge of thescreen to view the house. The seats were being filled up rapidly and apleasant noise circulated in the auditorium. She came back and spoke toher husband privately. Their conversation was evidently about Kathleenfor they both glanced at her often as she stood chatting to one of herNationalist friends, Miss Healy, the contralto. An unknown solitarywoman with a pale face walked through the room. The women followed withkeen eyes the faded blue dress which was stretched upon a meagre body. Someone said that she was Madam Glynn, the soprano. 

"I wonder where did they dig her up, " said Kathleen to Miss Healy. "I'msure I never heard of her. "

Miss Healy had to smile. Mr. Holohan limped into the dressing-roomat that moment and the two young ladies asked him who was the unknownwoman. Mr. Holohan said that she was Madam Glynn from London. MadamGlynn took her stand in a corner of the room, holding a roll of musicstiffly before her and from time to time changing the direction of herstartled gaze. The shadow took her faded dress into shelter but fellrevengefully into the little cup behind her collar-bone. The noise ofthe hall became more audible. The first tenor and the baritone arrivedtogether. They were both well dressed, stout and complacent and theybrought a breath of opulence among the company. 

Mrs. Kearney brought her daughter over to them, and talked to themamiably. She wanted to be on good terms with them but, while she stroveto be polite, her eyes followed Mr. Holohan in his limping and deviouscourses. As soon as she could she excused herself and went out afterhim. 

"Mr. Holohan, I want to speak to you for a moment, " she said. 

They went down to a discreet part of the corridor. Mrs Kearney askedhim when was her daughter going to be paid. Mr. Holohan said that Mr. Fitzpatrick had charge of that. Mrs. Kearney said that she didn't knowanything about Mr. Fitzpatrick. Her daughter had signed a contract foreight guineas and she would have to be paid. Mr. Holohan said that itwasn't his business. 

"Why isn't it your business?" asked Mrs. Kearney. "Didn't you yourselfbring her the contract? Anyway, if it's not your business it's mybusiness and I mean to see to it. "

"You'd better speak to Mr. Fitzpatrick, " said Mr. Holohan distantly. 

"I don't know anything about Mr. Fitzpatrick, " repeated Mrs. Kearney. "Ihave my contract, and I intend to see that it is carried out. "

When she came back to the dressing-room her cheeks were slightlysuffused. The room was lively. Two men in outdoor dress had takenpossession of the fireplace and were chatting familiarly with Miss Healyand the baritone. They were the Freeman man and Mr. O'Madden Burke. TheFreeman man had come in to say that he could not wait for the concert ashe had to report the lecture which an American priest was giving inthe Mansion House. He said they were to leave the report for him at theFreeman office and he would see that it went in. He was a grey-hairedman, with a plausible voice and careful manners. He held an extinguishedcigar in his hand and the aroma of cigar smoke floated near him. He hadnot intended to stay a moment because concerts and artistes bored himconsiderably but he remained leaning against the mantelpiece. MissHealy stood in front of him, talking and laughing. He was old enough tosuspect one reason for her politeness but young enough in spirit toturn the moment to account. The warmth, fragrance and colour of her bodyappealed to his senses. He was pleasantly conscious that the bosom whichhe saw rise and fall slowly beneath him rose and fell at that momentfor him, that the laughter and fragrance and wilful glances were histribute. When he could stay no longer he took leave of her regretfully. 

"O'Madden Burke will write the notice, " he explained to Mr. Holohan, "and I'll see it in. "

"Thank you very much, Mr. Hendrick, " said Mr. Holohan, "you'll see itin, I know. Now, won't you have a little something before you go?"

"I don't mind, " said Mr. Hendrick. 

The two men went along some tortuous passages and up a dark staircaseand came to a secluded room where one of the stewards was uncorkingbottles for a few gentlemen. One of these gentlemen was Mr. O'MaddenBurke, who had found out the room by instinct. He was a suave, elderlyman who balanced his imposing body, when at rest, upon a large silkumbrella. His magniloquent western name was the moral umbrella uponwhich he balanced the fine problem of his finances. He was widelyrespected. 

While Mr. Holohan was entertaining the Freeman man Mrs. Kearney wasspeaking so animatedly to her husband that he had to ask her to lowerher voice. The conversation of the others in the dressing-room hadbecome strained. Mr. Bell, the first item, stood ready with his musicbut the accompanist made no sign. Evidently something was wrong. Mr. Kearney looked straight before him, stroking his beard, while Mrs. Kearney spoke into Kathleen's ear with subdued emphasis. From the hallcame sounds of encouragement, clapping and stamping of feet. Thefirst tenor and the baritone and Miss Healy stood together, waitingtranquilly, but Mr. Bell's nerves were greatly agitated because he wasafraid the audience would think that he had come late. 

Mr. Holohan and Mr. O'Madden Burke came into the room In a moment Mr. Holohan perceived the hush. He went over to Mrs. Kearney and spokewith her earnestly. While they were speaking the noise in the hall grewlouder. Mr. Holohan became very red and excited. He spoke volubly, butMrs. Kearney said curtly at intervals:

"She won't go on. She must get her eight guineas. "

Mr. Holohan pointed desperately towards the hall where the audience wasclapping and stamping. He appealed to Mr Kearney and to Kathleen. ButMr. Kearney continued to stroke his beard and Kathleen looked down, moving the point of her new shoe: it was not her fault. Mrs. Kearneyrepeated:

"She won't go on without her money. "

After a swift struggle of tongues Mr. Holohan hobbled out in haste. The room was silent. When the strain of the silence had become somewhatpainful Miss Healy said to the baritone:

"Have you seen Mrs. Pat Campbell this week?"

The baritone had not seen her but he had been told that she was veryfine. The conversation went no further. The first tenor bent his headand began to count the links of the gold chain which was extended acrosshis waist, smiling and humming random notes to observe the effect on thefrontal sinus. From time to time everyone glanced at Mrs. Kearney. 

The noise in the auditorium had risen to a clamour when Mr. Fitzpatrickburst into the room, followed by Mr. Holohan who was panting. Theclapping and stamping in the hall were punctuated by whistling. Mr. Fitzpatrick held a few banknotes in his hand. He counted out fourinto Mrs. Kearney's hand and said she would get the other half at theinterval. Mrs. Kearney said:

"This is four shillings short. "

But Kathleen gathered in her skirt and said: "Now. Mr. Bell, " tothe first item, who was shaking like an aspen. The singer and theaccompanist went out together. The noise in hall died away. There was apause of a few seconds: and then the piano was heard. 

The first part of the concert was very successful except for MadamGlynn's item. The poor lady sang Killarney in a bodiless gasping voice, with all the old-fashioned mannerisms of intonation and pronunciationwhich she believed lent elegance to her singing. She looked as if shehad been resurrected from an old stage-wardrobe and the cheaper partsof the hall made fun of her high wailing notes. The first tenor and thecontralto, however, brought down the house. Kathleen played a selectionof Irish airs which was generously applauded. The first part closed witha stirring patriotic recitation delivered by a young lady who arrangedamateur theatricals. It was deservedly applauded; and, when it wasended, the men went out for the interval, content. 

All this time the dressing-room was a hive of excitement. In one cornerwere Mr. Holohan, Mr. Fitzpatrick, Miss Beirne, two of the stewards, thebaritone, the bass, and Mr. O'Madden Burke. Mr. O'Madden Burke said itwas the most scandalous exhibition he had ever witnessed. Miss KathleenKearney's musical career was ended in Dublin after that, he said. Thebaritone was asked what did he think of Mrs. Kearney's conduct. He didnot like to say anything. He had been paid his money and wished to be atpeace with men. However, he said that Mrs. Kearney might have taken theartistes into consideration. The stewards and the secretaries debatedhotly as to what should be done when the interval came. 

"I agree with Miss Beirne, " said Mr. O'Madden Burke. "Pay her nothing. "

In another corner of the room were Mrs. Kearney and he: husband, Mr. Bell, Miss Healy and the young lady who had to recite the patrioticpiece. Mrs. Kearney said that the Committee had treated herscandalously. She had spared neither trouble nor expense and this washow she was repaid. 

They thought they had only a girl to deal with and that therefore, theycould ride roughshod over her. But she would show them their mistake. They wouldn't have dared to have treated her like that if she had been aman. But she would see that her daughter got her rights: she wouldn'tbe fooled. If they didn't pay her to the last farthing she would makeDublin ring. Of course she was sorry for the sake of the artistes. Butwhat else could she do? She appealed to the second tenor who said hethought she had not been well treated. Then she appealed to Miss Healy. Miss Healy wanted to join the other group but she did not like to do sobecause she was a great friend of Kathleen's and the Kearneys had ofteninvited her to their house. 

As soon as the first part was ended Mr. Fitzpatrick and Mr. Holohan wentover to Mrs. Kearney and told her that the other four guineas would bepaid after the committee meeting on the following Tuesday and that, incase her daughter did not play for the second part, the committee wouldconsider the contract broken and would pay nothing. 

"I haven't seen any committee, " said Mrs. Kearney angrily. "My daughterhas her contract. She will get four pounds eight into her hand or a footshe won't put on that platform. "

"I'm surprised at you, Mrs. Kearney, " said Mr. Holohan. "I never thoughtyou would treat us this way. "

"And what way did you treat me?" asked Mrs. Kearney. 

Her face was inundated with an angry colour and she looked as if shewould attack someone with her hands. 

"I'm asking for my rights. " she said. 

"You might have some sense of decency, " said Mr. Holohan. 

"Might I, indeed?. . . And when I ask when my daughter is going to be paidI can't get a civil answer. "

She tossed her head and assumed a haughty voice:

"You must speak to the secretary. It's not my business. I'm a greatfellow fol-the-diddle-I-do. "

"I thought you were a lady, " said Mr. Holohan, walking away from herabruptly. 

After that Mrs. Kearney's conduct was condemned on all hands: everyoneapproved of what the committee had done. She stood at the door, haggardwith rage, arguing with her husband and daughter, gesticulating withthem. She waited until it was time for the second part to begin in thehope that the secretaries would approach her. But Miss Healy had kindlyconsented to play one or two accompaniments. Mrs. Kearney had to standaside to allow the baritone and his accompanist to pass up to theplatform. She stood still for an instant like an angry stone imageand, when the first notes of the song struck her ear, she caught up herdaughter's cloak and said to her husband:

"Get a cab!"

He went out at once. Mrs. Kearney wrapped the cloak round her daughterand followed him. As she passed through the doorway she stopped andglared into Mr. Holohan's face. 

"I'm not done with you yet, " she said. 

"But I'm done with you, " said Mr. Holohan. 

Kathleen followed her mother meekly. Mr. Holohan began to pace up anddown the room, in order to cool himself for he his skin on fire. 

"That's a nice lady!" he said. "O, she's a nice lady!"

"You did the proper thing, Holohan, " said Mr. O'Madden Burke, poisedupon his umbrella in approval. 

GRACE

TWO GENTLEMEN who were in the lavatory at the time tried to lift him up:but he was quite helpless. He lay curled up at the foot of the stairsdown which he had fallen. They succeeded in turning him over. His hathad rolled a few yards away and his clothes were smeared with the filthand ooze of the floor on which he had lain, face downwards. His eyeswere closed and he breathed with a grunting noise. A thin stream ofblood trickled from the corner of his mouth. 

These two gentlemen and one of the curates carried him up the stairsand laid him down again on the floor of the bar. In two minutes he wassurrounded by a ring of men. The manager of the bar asked everyonewho he was and who was with him. No one knew who he was but one of thecurates said he had served the gentleman with a small rum. 

"Was he by himself?" asked the manager. 

"No, sir. There was two gentlemen with him. "

"And where are they?"

No one knew; a voice said:

"Give him air. He's fainted. "

The ring of onlookers distended and closed again elastically. A darkmedal of blood had formed itself near the man's head on the tessellatedfloor. The manager, alarmed by the grey pallor of the man's face, sentfor a policeman. 

His collar was unfastened and his necktie undone. He opened eyes for aninstant, sighed and closed them again. One of gentlemen who had carriedhim upstairs held a dinged silk hat in his hand. The manager askedrepeatedly did no one know who the injured man was or where had hisfriends gone. The door of the bar opened and an immense constableentered. A crowd which had followed him down the laneway collectedoutside the door, struggling to look in through the glass panels. 

The manager at once began to narrate what he knew. The constable, a youngman with thick immobile features, listened. He moved his head slowly toright and left and from the manager to the person on the floor, as ifhe feared to be the victim some delusion. Then he drew off his glove, produced a small book from his waist, licked the lead of his pencil andmade ready to indite. He asked in a suspicious provincial accent:

"Who is the man? What's his name and address?"

A young man in a cycling-suit cleared his way through the ring ofbystanders. He knelt down promptly beside the injured man and called forwater. The constable knelt down also to help. The young man washed theblood from the injured man's mouth and then called for some brandy. Theconstable repeated the order in an authoritative voice until a curatecame running with the glass. The brandy was forced down the man'sthroat. In a few seconds he opened his eyes and looked about him. Helooked at the circle of faces and then, understanding, strove to rise tohis feet. 

"You're all right now?" asked the young man in the cycling-suit. 

"Sha, 's nothing, " said the injured man, trying to stand up. 

He was helped to his feet. The manager said something about a hospitaland some of the bystanders gave advice. The battered silk hat was placedon the man's head. The constable asked:

"Where do you live?"

The man, without answering, began to twirl the ends of his moustache. He made light of his accident. It was nothing, he said: only a littleaccident. He spoke very thickly. 

"Where do you live" repeated the constable. 

The man said they were to get a cab for him. While the point was beingdebated a tall agile gentleman of fair complexion, wearing a long yellowulster, came from the far end of the bar. Seeing the spectacle, hecalled out:

"Hallo, Tom, old man! What's the trouble?"

"Sha, 's nothing, " said the man. 

The new-comer surveyed the deplorable figure before him and then turnedto the constable, saying:

"It's all right, constable. I'll see him home. "

The constable touched his helmet and answered:

"All right, Mr. Power!"

"Come now, Tom, " said Mr. Power, taking his friend by the arm. "No bonesbroken. What? Can you walk?"

The young man in the cycling-suit took the man by the other arm and thecrowd divided. 

"How did you get yourself into this mess?" asked Mr. Power. 

"The gentleman fell down the stairs, " said the young man. 

"I' 'ery 'uch o'liged to you, sir, " said the injured man. 

"Not at all. "

"'ant we have a little. . . ?"

"Not now. Not now. "

The three men left the bar and the crowd sifted through the doors in tothe laneway. The manager brought the constable to the stairs to inspectthe scene of the accident. They agreed that the gentleman must havemissed his footing. The customers returned to the counter and a curateset about removing the traces of blood from the floor. 

When they came out into Grafton Street, Mr. Power whistled for anoutsider. The injured man said again as well as he could. 

"I' 'ery 'uch o'liged to you, sir. I hope we'll 'eet again. 'y na'e isKernan. "

The shock and the incipient pain had partly sobered him. 

"Don't mention it, " said the young man. 

They shook hands. Mr. Kernan was hoisted on to the car and, while Mr. Power was giving directions to the carman, he expressed his gratitudeto the young man and regretted that they could not have a little drinktogether. 

"Another time, " said the young man. 

The car drove off towards Westmoreland Street. As it passed BallastOffice the clock showed half-past nine. A keen east wind hit them, blowing from the mouth of the river. Mr. Kernan was huddled togetherwith cold. His friend asked him to tell how the accident had happened. 

"I'an't 'an, " he answered, "'y 'ongue is hurt. "

"Show. "

The other leaned over the well of the car and peered into Mr. Kernan'smouth but he could not see. He struck a match and, sheltering it in theshell of his hands, peered again into the mouth which Mr. Kernan openedobediently. The swaying movement of the car brought the match to andfrom the opened mouth. The lower teeth and gums were covered withclotted blood and a minute piece of the tongue seemed to have beenbitten off. The match was blown out. 

"That's ugly, " said Mr. Power. 

"Sha, 's nothing, " said Mr. Kernan, closing his mouth and pulling thecollar of his filthy coat across his neck. 

Mr. Kernan was a commercial traveller of the old school which believedin the dignity of its calling. He had never been seen in the citywithout a silk hat of some decency and a pair of gaiters. By grace ofthese two articles of clothing, he said, a man could always pass muster. He carried on the tradition of his Napoleon, the great Blackwhite, whosememory he evoked at times by legend and mimicry. Modern business methodshad spared him only so far as to allow him a little office in CroweStreet, on the window blind of which was written the name of his firmwith the address--London, E. C. On the mantelpiece of this little officea little leaden battalion of canisters was drawn up and on the tablebefore the window stood four or five china bowls which were usually halffull of a black liquid. From these bowls Mr. Kernan tasted tea. He tooka mouthful, drew it up, saturated his palate with it and then spat itforth into the grate. Then he paused to judge. 

Mr. Power, a much younger man, was employed in the Royal IrishConstabulary Office in Dublin Castle. The arc of his social riseintersected the arc of his friend's decline, but Mr. Kernan's declinewas mitigated by the fact that certain of those friends who had knownhim at his highest point of success still esteemed him as a character. Mr. Power was one of these friends. His inexplicable debts were a bywordin his circle; he was a debonair young man. 

The car halted before a small house on the Glasnevin road and Mr. Kernanwas helped into the house. His wife put him to bed while Mr. Power satdownstairs in the kitchen asking the children where they went to schooland what book they were in. The children--two girls and a boy, consciousof their father helplessness and of their mother's absence, began somehorseplay with him. He was surprised at their manners and at theiraccents, and his brow grew thoughtful. After a while Mrs. Kernan enteredthe kitchen, exclaiming:

"Such a sight! O, he'll do for himself one day and that's the holy allsof it. He's been drinking since Friday. "

Mr. Power was careful to explain to her that he was not responsible, that he had come on the scene by the merest accident. Mrs. Kernan, remembering Mr. Power's good offices during domestic quarrels, as wellas many small, but opportune loans, said:

"O, you needn't tell me that, Mr. Power. I know you're a friend of his, not like some of the others he does be with. They're all right so longas he has money in his pocket to keep him out from his wife and family. Nice friends! Who was he with tonight, I'd like to know?"

Mr. Power shook his head but said nothing. 

"I'm so sorry, " she continued, "that I've nothing in the house to offeryou. But if you wait a minute I'll send round to Fogarty's, at thecorner. "

Mr. Power stood up. 

"We were waiting for him to come home with the money. He never seems tothink he has a home at all. "

"O, now, Mrs. Kernan, " said Mr. Power, "we'll make him turn over a newleaf. I'll talk to Martin. He's the man. We'll come here one of thesenights and talk it over. "

She saw him to the door. The carman was stamping up and down thefootpath, and swinging his arms to warm himself. 

"It's very kind of you to bring him home, " she said. 

"Not at all, " said Mr. Power. 

He got up on the car. As it drove off he raised his hat to her gaily. 

"We'll make a new man of him, " he said. "Good-night, Mrs. Kernan. "

Mrs. Kernan's puzzled eyes watched the car till it was out of sight. Then she withdrew them, went into the house and emptied her husband'spockets. 

She was an active, practical woman of middle age. Not long before shehad celebrated her silver wedding and renewed her intimacy with herhusband by waltzing with him to Mr. Power's accompaniment. In her daysof courtship, Mr. Kernan had seemed to her a not ungallant figure: andshe still hurried to the chapel door whenever a wedding was reportedand, seeing the bridal pair, recalled with vivid pleasure how she hadpassed out of the Star of the Sea Church in Sandymount, leaning on thearm of a jovial well-fed man, who was dressed smartly in a frock-coatand lavender trousers and carried a silk hat gracefully balanced uponhis other arm. After three weeks she had found a wife's life irksomeand, later on, when she was beginning to find it unbearable, she hadbecome a mother. The part of mother presented to her no insuperabledifficulties and for twenty-five years she had kept house shrewdly forher husband. Her two eldest sons were launched. One was in a draper'sshop in Glasgow and the other was clerk to a tea-merchant in Belfast. They were good sons, wrote regularly and sometimes sent home money. Theother children were still at school. 

Mr. Kernan sent a letter to his office next day and remained in bed. Shemade beef-tea for him and scolded him roundly. She accepted his frequentintemperance as part of the climate, healed him dutifully whenever hewas sick and always tried to make him eat a breakfast. There were worsehusbands. He had never been violent since the boys had grown up, and sheknew that he would walk to the end of Thomas Street and back again tobook even a small order. 

Two nights after, his friends came to see him. She brought them up tohis bedroom, the air of which was impregnated with a personal odour, and gave them chairs at the fire. Mr. Kernan's tongue, the occasionalstinging pain of which had made him somewhat irritable during the day, became more polite. He sat propped up in the bed by pillows and thelittle colour in his puffy cheeks made them resemble warm cinders. Heapologised to his guests for the disorder of the room, but at the sametime looked at them a little proudly, with a veteran's pride. 

He was quite unconscious that he was the victim of a plot which hisfriends, Mr. Cunningham, Mr. M'Coy and Mr. Power had disclosed to Mrs. Kernan in the parlour. The idea been Mr. Power's, but its developmentwas entrusted to Mr. Cunningham. Mr. Kernan came of Protestant stockand, though he had been converted to the Catholic faith at the timeof his marriage, he had not been in the pale of the Church for twentyyears. He was fond, moreover, of giving side-thrusts at Catholicism. 

Mr. Cunningham was the very man for such a case. He was an eldercolleague of Mr. Power. His own domestic life was very happy. Peoplehad great sympathy with him, for it was known that he had married anunpresentable woman who was an incurable drunkard. He had set up housefor her six times; and each time she had pawned the furniture on him. 

Everyone had respect for poor Martin Cunningham. He was a thoroughlysensible man, influential and intelligent. His blade of human knowledge, natural astuteness particularised by long association with cases in thepolice courts, had been tempered by brief immersions in the watersof general philosophy. He was well informed. His friends bowed to hisopinions and considered that his face was like Shakespeare's. 

When the plot had been disclosed to her, Mrs. Kernan had said:

"I leave it all in your hands, Mr. Cunningham. "

After a quarter of a century of married life, she had very few illusionsleft. Religion for her was a habit, and she suspected that a man of herhusband's age would not change greatly before death. She was tempted tosee a curious appropriateness in his accident and, but that she didnot wish to seem bloody-minded, would have told the gentlemen thatMr. Kernan's tongue would not suffer by being shortened. However, Mr. Cunningham was a capable man; and religion was religion. The schememight do good and, at least, it could do no harm. Her beliefs werenot extravagant. She believed steadily in the Sacred Heart as themost generally useful of all Catholic devotions and approved of thesacraments. Her faith was bounded by her kitchen, but, if she was put toit, she could believe also in the banshee and in the Holy Ghost. 

The gentlemen began to talk of the accident. Mr. Cunningham said that hehad once known a similar case. A man of seventy had bitten off a pieceof his tongue during an epileptic fit and the tongue had filled inagain, so that no one could see a trace of the bite. 

"Well, I'm not seventy, " said the invalid. 

"God forbid, " said Mr. Cunningham. 

"It doesn't pain you now?" asked Mr. M'Coy. 

Mr. M'Coy had been at one time a tenor of some reputation. His wife, whohad been a soprano, still taught young children to play the piano at lowterms. His line of life had not been the shortest distance between twopoints and for short periods he had been driven to live by his wits. Hehad been a clerk in the Midland Railway, a canvasser for advertisementsfor The Irish Times and for The Freeman's Journal, a town travellerfor a coal firm on commission, a private inquiry agent, a clerk in theoffice of the Sub-Sheriff, and he had recently become secretary to theCity Coroner. His new office made him professionally interested in Mr. Kernan's case. 

"Pain? Not much, " answered Mr. Kernan. "But it's so sickening. I feel asif I wanted to retch off. "

"That's the boose, " said Mr. Cunningham firmly. 

"No, " said Mr. Kernan. "I think I caught cold on the car. There'ssomething keeps coming into my throat, phlegm or----"

"Mucus. " said Mr. M'Coy. 

"It keeps coming like from down in my throat; sickening. "

"Yes, yes, " said Mr. M'Coy, "that's the thorax. "

He looked at Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Power at the same time with an airof challenge. Mr. Cunningham nodded his head rapidly and Mr. Power said:

"Ah, well, all's well that ends well. "

"I'm very much obliged to you, old man, " said the invalid. 

Mr. Power waved his hand. 

"Those other two fellows I was with----"

"Who were you with?" asked Mr. Cunningham. 

"A chap. I don't know his name. Damn it now, what's his name? Littlechap with sandy hair. . . . "

"And who else?"

"Harford. "

"Hm, " said Mr. Cunningham. 

When Mr. Cunningham made that remark, people were silent. It was knownthat the speaker had secret sources of information. In this case themonosyllable had a moral intention. Mr. Harford sometimes formed oneof a little detachment which left the city shortly after noon on Sundaywith the purpose of arriving as soon as possible at some public-house onthe outskirts of the city where its members duly qualified themselves asbona fide travellers. But his fellow-travellers had never consentedto overlook his origin. He had begun life as an obscure financier bylending small sums of money to workmen at usurious interest. Later on hehad become the partner of a very fat, short gentleman, Mr. Goldberg, inthe Liffey Loan Bank. Though he had never embraced more than the Jewishethical code, his fellow-Catholics, whenever they had smarted in personor by proxy under his exactions, spoke of him bitterly as an Irish Jewand an illiterate, and saw divine disapproval of usury made manifestthrough the person of his idiot son. At other times they remembered hisgood points. 

"I wonder where did he go to, " said Mr. Kernan. 

He wished the details of the incident to remain vague. He wished hisfriends to think there had been some mistake, that Mr. Harford and hehad missed each other. His friends, who knew quite well Mr. Harford'smanners in drinking were silent. Mr. Power said again:

"All's well that ends well. "

Mr. Kernan changed the subject at once. 

"That was a decent young chap, that medical fellow, " he said. "Only forhim----"

"O, only for him, " said Mr. Power, "it might have been a case of sevendays, without the option of a fine. "

"Yes, yes, " said Mr. Kernan, trying to remember. "I remember now therewas a policeman. Decent young fellow, he seemed. How did it happen atall?"

"It happened that you were peloothered, Tom, " said Mr. Cunninghamgravely. 

"True bill, " said Mr. Kernan, equally gravely. 

"I suppose you squared the constable, Jack, " said Mr. M'Coy. 

Mr. Power did not relish the use of his Christian name. He was notstraight-laced, but he could not forget that Mr. M'Coy had recently madea crusade in search of valises and portmanteaus to enable Mrs. M'Coy tofulfil imaginary engagements in the country. More than he resented thefact that he had been victimised he resented such low playing of thegame. He answered the question, therefore, as if Mr. Kernan had askedit. 

The narrative made Mr. Kernan indignant. He was keenly conscious of hiscitizenship, wished to live with his city on terms mutually honourableand resented any affront put upon him by those whom he called countrybumpkins. 

"Is this what we pay rates for?" he asked. "To feed and clothe theseignorant bostooms. . . And they're nothing else. "

Mr. Cunningham laughed. He was a Castle official only during officehours. 

"How could they be anything else, Tom?" he said. 

He assumed a thick, provincial accent and said in a tone of command:

"65, catch your cabbage!"

Everyone laughed. Mr. M'Coy, who wanted to enter the conversation by anydoor, pretended that he had never heard the story. Mr. Cunningham said:

"It is supposed--they say, you know--to take place in the depot wherethey get these thundering big country fellows, omadhauns, you know, todrill. The sergeant makes them stand in a row against the wall and holdup their plates. "

He illustrated the story by grotesque gestures. 

"At dinner, you know. Then he has a bloody big bowl of cabbage beforehim on the table and a bloody big spoon like a shovel. He takes up a wadof cabbage on the spoon and pegs it across the room and the poor devilshave to try and catch it on their plates: 65, catch your cabbage. "

Everyone laughed again: but Mr. Kernan was somewhat indignant still. Hetalked of writing a letter to the papers. 

"These yahoos coming up here, " he said, "think they can boss the people. I needn't tell you, Martin, what kind of men they are. "

Mr. Cunningham gave a qualified assent. 

"It's like everything else in this world, " he said. "You get some badones and you get some good ones. "

"O yes, you get some good ones, I admit, " said Mr. Kernan, satisfied. 

"It's better to have nothing to say to them, " said Mr. M'Coy. "That's myopinion!"

Mrs. Kernan entered the room and, placing a tray on the table, said:

"Help yourselves, gentlemen. "

Mr. Power stood up to officiate, offering her his chair. She declinedit, saying she was ironing downstairs, and, after having exchanged a nodwith Mr. Cunningham behind Mr. Power's back, prepared to leave the room. Her husband called out to her:

"And have you nothing for me, duckie?"

"O, you! The back of my hand to you!" said Mrs. Kernan tartly. 

Her husband called after her:

"Nothing for poor little hubby!"

He assumed such a comical face and voice that the distribution of thebottles of stout took place amid general merriment. 

The gentlemen drank from their glasses, set the glasses again on thetable and paused. Then Mr. Cunningham turned towards Mr. Power and saidcasually:

"On Thursday night, you said, Jack. "

"Thursday, yes, " said Mr. Power. 

"Righto!" said Mr. Cunningham promptly. 

"We can meet in M'Auley's, " said Mr. M'Coy. "That'll be the mostconvenient place. "

"But we mustn't be late, " said Mr. Power earnestly, "because it is sureto be crammed to the doors. "

"We can meet at half-seven, " said Mr. M'Coy. 

"Righto!" said Mr. Cunningham. 

"Half-seven at M'Auley's be it!"

There was a short silence. Mr. Kernan waited to see whether he would betaken into his friends' confidence. Then he asked:

"What's in the wind?"

"O, it's nothing, " said Mr. Cunningham. "It's only a little matter thatwe're arranging about for Thursday. "

"The opera, is it?" said Mr. Kernan. 

"No, no, " said Mr. Cunningham in an evasive tone, "it's just a little. . . Spiritual matter. "

"O, " said Mr. Kernan. 

There was silence again. Then Mr. Power said, point blank:

"To tell you the truth, Tom, we're going to make a retreat. "

"Yes, that's it, " said Mr. Cunningham, "Jack and I and M'Coy here--we'reall going to wash the pot. "

He uttered the metaphor with a certain homely energy and, encouraged byhis own voice, proceeded:

"You see, we may as well all admit we're a nice collection ofscoundrels, one and all. I say, one and all, " he added with gruffcharity and turning to Mr. Power. "Own up now!"

"I own up, " said Mr. Power. 

"And I own up, " said Mr. M'Coy. 

"So we're going to wash the pot together, " said Mr. Cunningham. 

A thought seemed to strike him. He turned suddenly to the invalid andsaid:

"D'ye know what, Tom, has just occurred to me? You night join in andwe'd have a four-handed reel. "

"Good idea, " said Mr. Power. "The four of us together. "

Mr. Kernan was silent. The proposal conveyed very little meaning tohis mind, but, understanding that some spiritual agencies were about toconcern themselves on his behalf, he thought he owed it to his dignityto show a stiff neck. He took no part in the conversation for a longwhile, but listened, with an air of calm enmity, while his friendsdiscussed the Jesuits. 

"I haven't such a bad opinion of the Jesuits, " he said, intervening atlength. "They're an educated order. I believe they mean well, too. "

"They're the grandest order in the Church, Tom, " said Mr. Cunningham, with enthusiasm. "The General of the Jesuits stands next to the Pope. "

"There's no mistake about it, " said Mr. M'Coy, "if you want a thingwell done and no flies about, you go to a Jesuit. They're the boyos haveinfluence. I'll tell you a case in point. . . . "

"The Jesuits are a fine body of men, " said Mr. Power. 

"It's a curious thing, " said Mr. Cunningham, "about the Jesuit Order. Every other order of the Church had to be reformed at some time or otherbut the Jesuit Order was never once reformed. It never fell away. "

"Is that so?" asked Mr. M'Coy. 

"That's a fact, " said Mr. Cunningham. "That's history. "

"Look at their church, too, " said Mr. Power. "Look at the congregationthey have. "

"The Jesuits cater for the upper classes, " said Mr. M'Coy. 

"Of course, " said Mr. Power. 

"Yes, " said Mr. Kernan. "That's why I have a feeling for them. It's someof those secular priests, ignorant, bumptious----"

"They're all good men, " said Mr. Cunningham, "each in his own way. TheIrish priesthood is honoured all the world over. "

"O yes, " said Mr. Power. 

"Not like some of the other priesthoods on the continent, " said Mr. M'Coy, "unworthy of the name. "

"Perhaps you're right, " said Mr. Kernan, relenting. 

"Of course I'm right, " said Mr. Cunningham. "I haven't been in theworld all this time and seen most sides of it without being a judge ofcharacter. "

The gentlemen drank again, one following another's example. Mr. Kernanseemed to be weighing something in his mind. He was impressed. He had ahigh opinion of Mr. Cunningham as a judge of character and as a readerof faces. He asked for particulars. 

"O, it's just a retreat, you know, " said Mr. Cunningham. "Father Purdonis giving it. It's for business men, you know. "

"He won't be too hard on us, Tom, " said Mr. Power persuasively. 

"Father Purdon? Father Purdon?" said the invalid. 

"O, you must know him, Tom, " said Mr. Cunningham stoutly. "Fine, jollyfellow! He's a man of the world like ourselves. "

"Ah, . . . Yes. I think I know him. Rather red face; tall. "

"That's the man. "

"And tell me, Martin. . . . Is he a good preacher?"

"Munno. . . . It's not exactly a sermon, you know. It's just kind of afriendly talk, you know, in a common-sense way. "

Mr. Kernan deliberated. Mr. M'Coy said:

"Father Tom Burke, that was the boy!"

"O, Father Tom Burke, " said Mr. Cunningham, "that was a born orator. Didyou ever hear him, Tom?"

"Did I ever hear him!" said the invalid, nettled. "Rather! I heardhim. . . . "

"And yet they say he wasn't much of a theologian, " said Mr Cunningham. 

"Is that so?" said Mr. M'Coy. 

"O, of course, nothing wrong, you know. Only sometimes, they say, hedidn't preach what was quite orthodox. "

"Ah!. . . He was a splendid man, " said Mr. M'Coy. 

"I heard him once, " Mr. Kernan continued. "I forget the subject of hisdiscourse now. Crofton and I were in the back of the. . . Pit, you know. . . The----"

"The body, " said Mr. Cunningham. 

"Yes, in the back near the door. I forget now what. . . . O yes, it wason the Pope, the late Pope. I remember it well. Upon my word it wasmagnificent, the style of the oratory. And his voice! God! hadn't he avoice! The Prisoner of the Vatican, he called him. I remember Croftonsaying to me when we came out----"

"But he's an Orangeman, Crofton, isn't he?" said Mr. Power. 

"'Course he is, " said Mr. Kernan, "and a damned decent Orangeman too. Wewent into Butler's in Moore Street--faith, was genuinely moved, tell youthe God's truth--and I remember well his very words. Kernan, he said, weworship at different altars, he said, but our belief is the same. Struckme as very well put. "

"There's a good deal in that, " said Mr. Power. "There used always becrowds of Protestants in the chapel where Father Tom was preaching. "

"There's not much difference between us, " said Mr. M'Coy. 

"We both believe in----"

He hesitated for a moment. 

". . . In the Redeemer. Only they don't believe in the Pope and in themother of God. "

"But, of course, " said Mr. Cunningham quietly and effectively, "ourreligion is the religion, the old, original faith. "

"Not a doubt of it, " said Mr. Kernan warmly. 

Mrs. Kernan came to the door of the bedroom and announced:

"Here's a visitor for you!"

"Who is it?"

"Mr. Fogarty. "

"O, come in! come in!"

A pale, oval face came forward into the light. The arch of its fairtrailing moustache was repeated in the fair eyebrows looped abovepleasantly astonished eyes. Mr. Fogarty was a modest grocer. He hadfailed in business in a licensed house in the city because his financialcondition had constrained him to tie himself to second-class distillersand brewers. He had opened a small shop on Glasnevin Road where, heflattered himself, his manners would ingratiate him with the housewivesof the district. He bore himself with a certain grace, complimentedlittle children and spoke with a neat enunciation. He was not withoutculture. 

Mr. Fogarty brought a gift with him, a half-pint of special whisky. Heinquired politely for Mr. Kernan, placed his gift on the table and satdown with the company on equal terms. Mr. Kernan appreciated the giftall the more since he was aware that there was a small account forgroceries unsettled between him and Mr. Fogarty. He said:

"I wouldn't doubt you, old man. Open that, Jack, will you?"

Mr. Power again officiated. Glasses were rinsed and five smallmeasures of whisky were poured out. This new influence enlivened theconversation. Mr. Fogarty, sitting on a small area of the chair, wasspecially interested. 

"Pope Leo XIII, " said Mr. Cunningham, "was one of the lights of the age. His great idea, you know, was the union of the Latin and Greek Churches. That was the aim of his life. "

"I often heard he was one of the most intellectual men in Europe, " saidMr. Power. "I mean, apart from his being Pope. "

"So he was, " said Mr. Cunningham, "if not the most so. His motto, youknow, as Pope, was Lux upon Lux--Light upon Light. "

"No, no, " said Mr. Fogarty eagerly. "I think you're wrong there. It wasLux in Tenebris, I think--Light in Darkness. "

"O yes, " said Mr. M'Coy, "Tenebrae. "

"Allow me, " said Mr. Cunningham positively, "it was Lux upon Lux. AndPius IX his predecessor's motto was Crux upon Crux--that is, Cross uponCross--to show the difference between their two pontificates. "

The inference was allowed. Mr. Cunningham continued. 

"Pope Leo, you know, was a great scholar and a poet. "

"He had a strong face, " said Mr. Kernan. 

"Yes, " said Mr. Cunningham. "He wrote Latin poetry. "

"Is that so?" said Mr. Fogarty. 

Mr. M'Coy tasted his whisky contentedly and shook his head with a doubleintention, saying:

"That's no joke, I can tell you. "

"We didn't learn that, Tom, " said Mr. Power, following Mr. M'Coy'sexample, "when we went to the penny-a-week school. "

"There was many a good man went to the penny-a-week school with a sodof turf under his oxter, " said Mr. Kernan sententiously. "The old systemwas the best: plain honest education. None of your modern trumpery. . . . "

"Quite right, " said Mr. Power. 

"No superfluities, " said Mr. Fogarty. 

He enunciated the word and then drank gravely. 

"I remember reading, " said Mr. Cunningham, "that one of Pope Leo's poemswas on the invention of the photograph--in Latin, of course. "

"On the photograph!" exclaimed Mr. Kernan. 

"Yes, " said Mr. Cunningham. 

He also drank from his glass. 

"Well, you know, " said Mr. M'Coy, "isn't the photograph wonderful whenyou come to think of it?"

"O, of course, " said Mr. Power, "great minds can see things. "

"As the poet says: Great minds are very near to madness, " said Mr. Fogarty. 

Mr. Kernan seemed to be troubled in mind. He made an effort to recallthe Protestant theology on some thorny points and in the end addressedMr. Cunningham. 

"Tell me, Martin, " he said. "Weren't some of the popes--of course, notour present man, or his predecessor, but some of the old popes--notexactly. . . You know. . . Up to the knocker?"

There was a silence. Mr. Cunningham said

"O, of course, there were some bad lots. . . But the astonishing thingis this. Not one of them, not the biggest drunkard, not the most. . . Out-and-out ruffian, not one of them ever preached ex cathedra a word offalse doctrine. Now isn't that an astonishing thing?"

"That is, " said Mr. Kernan. 

"Yes, because when the Pope speaks ex cathedra, " Mr. Fogarty explained, "he is infallible. "

"Yes, " said Mr. Cunningham. 

"O, I know about the infallibility of the Pope. I remember I was youngerthen. . . . Or was it that----?"

Mr. Fogarty interrupted. He took up the bottle and helped the others toa little more. Mr. M'Coy, seeing that there was not enough to go round, pleaded that he had not finished his first measure. The others acceptedunder protest. The light music of whisky falling into glasses made anagreeable interlude. 

"What's that you were saying, Tom?" asked Mr. M'Coy. 

"Papal infallibility, " said Mr. Cunningham, "that was the greatest scenein the whole history of the Church. "

"How was that, Martin?" asked Mr. Power. 

Mr. Cunningham held up two thick fingers. 

"In the sacred college, you know, of cardinals and archbishops andbishops there were two men who held out against it while the others wereall for it. The whole conclave except these two was unanimous. No! Theywouldn't have it!"

"Ha!" said Mr. M'Coy. 

"And they were a German cardinal by the name of Dolling. . . Or Dowling. . . Or----"

"Dowling was no German, and that's a sure five, " said Mr. Power, laughing. 

"Well, this great German cardinal, whatever his name was, was one; andthe other was John MacHale. "

"What?" cried Mr. Kernan. "Is it John of Tuam?"

"Are you sure of that now?" asked Mr. Fogarty dubiously. "I thought itwas some Italian or American. "

"John of Tuam, " repeated Mr. Cunningham, "was the man. "

He drank and the other gentlemen followed his lead. Then he resumed:

"There they were at it, all the cardinals and bishops and archbishopsfrom all the ends of the earth and these two fighting dog and deviluntil at last the Pope himself stood up and declared infallibility adogma of the Church ex cathedra. On the very moment John MacHale, whohad been arguing and arguing against it, stood up and shouted out withthe voice of a lion: 'Credo!'"

"I believe!" said Mr. Fogarty. 

"Credo!" said Mr. Cunningham "That showed the faith he had. He submittedthe moment the Pope spoke. "

"And what about Dowling?" asked Mr. M'Coy. 

"The German cardinal wouldn't submit. He left the church. "

Mr. Cunningham's words had built up the vast image of the church in theminds of his hearers. His deep, raucous voice had thrilled them as ituttered the word of belief and submission. When Mrs. Kernan came intothe room, drying her hands she came into a solemn company. She did notdisturb the silence, but leaned over the rail at the foot of the bed. 

"I once saw John MacHale, " said Mr. Kernan, "and I'll never forget it aslong as I live. "

He turned towards his wife to be confirmed. 

"I often told you that?"

Mrs. Kernan nodded. 

"It was at the unveiling of Sir John Gray's statue. Edmund DwyerGray was speaking, blathering away, and here was this old fellow, crabbed-looking old chap, looking at him from under his bushy eyebrows. "

Mr. Kernan knitted his brows and, lowering his head like an angry bull, glared at his wife. 

"God!" he exclaimed, resuming his natural face, "I never saw such an eyein a man's head. It was as much as to say: I have you properly taped, mylad. He had an eye like a hawk. "

"None of the Grays was any good, " said Mr. Power. 

There was a pause again. Mr. Power turned to Mrs. Kernan and said withabrupt joviality:

"Well, Mrs. Kernan, we're going to make your man here a good holy piousand God-fearing Roman Catholic. "

He swept his arm round the company inclusively. 

"We're all going to make a retreat together and confess our sins--andGod knows we want it badly. "

"I don't mind, " said Mr. Kernan, smiling a little nervously. 

Mrs. Kernan thought it would be wiser to conceal her satisfaction. Soshe said:

"I pity the poor priest that has to listen to your tale. "

Mr. Kernan's expression changed. 

"If he doesn't like it, " he said bluntly, "he can. . . Do the other thing. I'll just tell him my little tale of woe. I'm not such a bad fellow----"

Mr. Cunningham intervened promptly. 

"We'll all renounce the devil, " he said, "together, not forgetting hisworks and pomps. "

"Get behind me, Satan!" said Mr. Fogarty, laughing and looking at theothers. 

Mr. Power said nothing. He felt completely out-generalled. But a pleasedexpression flickered across his face. 

"All we have to do, " said Mr. Cunningham, "is to stand up with lightedcandles in our hands and renew our baptismal vows. "

"O, don't forget the candle, Tom, " said Mr. M'Coy, "whatever you do. "

"What?" said Mr. Kernan. "Must I have a candle?"

"O yes, " said Mr. Cunningham. 

"No, damn it all, " said Mr. Kernan sensibly, "I draw the line there. I'll do the job right enough. I'll do the retreat business andconfession, and. . . All that business. But. . . No candles! No, damn itall, I bar the candles!"

He shook his head with farcical gravity. 

"Listen to that!" said his wife. 

"I bar the candles, " said Mr. Kernan, conscious of having created aneffect on his audience and continuing to shake his head to and fro. "Ibar the magic-lantern business. "

Everyone laughed heartily. 

"There's a nice Catholic for you!" said his wife. 

"No candles!" repeated Mr. Kernan obdurately. "That's off!"

The transept of the Jesuit Church in Gardiner Street was almost full;and still at every moment gentlemen entered from the side door and, directed by the lay-brother, walked on tiptoe along the aisles untilthey found seating accommodation. The gentlemen were all well dressedand orderly. The light of the lamps of the church fell upon an assemblyof black clothes and white collars, relieved here and there by tweeds, on dark mottled pillars of green marble and on lugubrious canvases. Thegentlemen sat in the benches, having hitched their trousers slightlyabove their knees and laid their hats in security. They sat well backand gazed formally at the distant speck of red light which was suspendedbefore the high altar. 

In one of the benches near the pulpit sat Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Kernan. In the bench behind sat Mr. M'Coy alone: and in the bench behind him satMr. Power and Mr. Fogarty. Mr. M'Coy had tried unsuccessfully to find aplace in the bench with the others, and, when the party had settled downin the form of a quincunx, he had tried unsuccessfully to make comicremarks. As these had not been well received, he had desisted. Even hewas sensible of the decorous atmosphere and even he began to respond tothe religious stimulus. In a whisper, Mr. Cunningham drew Mr. Kernan'sattention to Mr. Harford, the moneylender, who sat some distance off, and to Mr. Fanning, the registration agent and mayor maker of the city, who was sitting immediately under the pulpit beside one of the newlyelected councillors of the ward. To the right sat old Michael Grimes, the owner of three pawnbroker's shops, and Dan Hogan's nephew, who wasup for the job in the Town Clerk's office. Farther in front satMr. Hendrick, the chief reporter of The Freeman's Journal, and poorO'Carroll, an old friend of Mr. Kernan's, who had been at one time aconsiderable commercial figure. Gradually, as he recognised familiarfaces, Mr. Kernan began to feel more at home. His hat, which had beenrehabilitated by his wife, rested upon his knees. Once or twice hepulled down his cuffs with one hand while he held the brim of his hatlightly, but firmly, with the other hand. 

A powerful-looking figure, the upper part of which was draped witha white surplice, was observed to be struggling into the pulpit. Simultaneously the congregation unsettled, produced handkerchiefs andknelt upon them with care. Mr. Kernan followed the general example. Thepriest's figure now stood upright in the pulpit, two-thirds of its bulk, crowned by a massive red face, appearing above the balustrade. 

Father Purdon knelt down, turned towards the red speck of lightand, covering his face with his hands, prayed. After an interval, heuncovered his face and rose. The congregation rose also and settledagain on its benches. Mr. Kernan restored his hat to its originalposition on his knee and presented an attentive face to the preacher. The preacher turned back each wide sleeve of his surplice with anelaborate large gesture and slowly surveyed the array of faces. Then hesaid:

"For the children of this world are wiser in their generation than thechildren of light. Wherefore make unto yourselves friends out of themammon of iniquity so that when you die they may receive you intoeverlasting dwellings. "

Father Purdon developed the text with resonant assurance. It was one ofthe most difficult texts in all the Scriptures, he said, to interpretproperly. It was a text which might seem to the casual observer atvariance with the lofty morality elsewhere preached by Jesus Christ. But, he told his hearers, the text had seemed to him specially adaptedfor the guidance of those whose lot it was to lead the life of the worldand who yet wished to lead that life not in the manner of worldlings. Itwas a text for business men and professional men. Jesus Christ with Hisdivine understanding of every cranny of our human nature, understoodthat all men were not called to the religious life, that by far the vastmajority were forced to live in the world, and, to a certain extent, for the world: and in this sentence He designed to give them a word ofcounsel, setting before them as exemplars in the religious life thosevery worshippers of Mammon who were of all men the least solicitous inmatters religious. 

He told his hearers that he was there that evening for no terrifying, no extravagant purpose; but as a man of the world speaking to hisfellow-men. He came to speak to business men and he would speak to themin a businesslike way. If he might use the metaphor, he said, he wastheir spiritual accountant; and he wished each and every one of hishearers to open his books, the books of his spiritual life, and see ifthey tallied accurately with conscience. 

Jesus Christ was not a hard taskmaster. He understood our littlefailings, understood the weakness of our poor fallen nature, understoodthe temptations of this life. We might have had, we all had from time totime, our temptations: we might have, we all had, our failings. But onething only, he said, he would ask of his hearers. And that was: to bestraight and manly with God. If their accounts tallied in every point tosay:

"Well, I have verified my accounts. I find all well. "

But if, as might happen, there were some discrepancies, to admit thetruth, to be frank and say like a man:

"Well, I have looked into my accounts. I find this wrong and this wrong. But, with God's grace, I will rectify this and this. I will set right myaccounts. "

THE DEAD

LILY, the caretaker's daughter, was literally run off her feet. Hardlyhad she brought one gentleman into the little pantry behind the officeon the ground floor and helped him off with his overcoat than the wheezyhall-door bell clanged again and she had to scamper along the barehallway to let in another guest. It was well for her she had not toattend to the ladies also. But Miss Kate and Miss Julia had thoughtof that and had converted the bathroom upstairs into a ladies'dressing-room. Miss Kate and Miss Julia were there, gossiping andlaughing and fussing, walking after each other to the head of thestairs, peering down over the banisters and calling down to Lily to askher who had come. 

It was always a great affair, the Misses Morkan's annual dance. Everybody who knew them came to it, members of the family, old friendsof the family, the members of Julia's choir, any of Kate's pupils thatwere grown up enough, and even some of Mary Jane's pupils too. Neveronce had it fallen flat. For years and years it had gone off in splendidstyle, as long as anyone could remember; ever since Kate and Julia, after the death of their brother Pat, had left the house in StoneyBatter and taken Mary Jane, their only niece, to live with them in thedark, gaunt house on Usher's Island, the upper part of which they hadrented from Mr. Fulham, the corn-factor on the ground floor. That was agood thirty years ago if it was a day. Mary Jane, who was then a littlegirl in short clothes, was now the main prop of the household, for shehad the organ in Haddington Road. She had been through the Academyand gave a pupils' concert every year in the upper room of the AntientConcert Rooms. Many of her pupils belonged to the better-class familieson the Kingstown and Dalkey line. Old as they were, her aunts also didtheir share. Julia, though she was quite grey, was still the leadingsoprano in Adam and Eve's, and Kate, being too feeble to go about much, gave music lessons to beginners on the old square piano in the backroom. Lily, the caretaker's daughter, did housemaid's work for them. Though their life was modest, they believed in eating well; the bestof everything: diamond-bone sirloins, three-shilling tea and the bestbottled stout. But Lily seldom made a mistake in the orders, so that shegot on well with her three mistresses. They were fussy, that was all. But the only thing they would not stand was back answers. 

Of course, they had good reason to be fussy on such a night. And then itwas long after ten o'clock and yet there was no sign of Gabriel and hiswife. Besides they were dreadfully afraid that Freddy Malins mightturn up screwed. They would not wish for worlds that any of Mary Jane'spupils should see him under the influence; and when he was like that itwas sometimes very hard to manage him. Freddy Malins always came late, but they wondered what could be keeping Gabriel: and that was whatbrought them every two minutes to the banisters to ask Lily had Gabrielor Freddy come. 

"O, Mr. Conroy, " said Lily to Gabriel when she opened the door for him, "Miss Kate and Miss Julia thought you were never coming. Good-night, Mrs. Conroy. "

"I'll engage they did, " said Gabriel, "but they forget that my wife heretakes three mortal hours to dress herself. "

He stood on the mat, scraping the snow from his goloshes, while Lily ledhis wife to the foot of the stairs and called out:

"Miss Kate, here's Mrs. Conroy. "

Kate and Julia came toddling down the dark stairs at once. Both of themkissed Gabriel's wife, said she must be perished alive, and asked wasGabriel with her. 

"Here I am as right as the mail, Aunt Kate! Go on up. I'll follow, "called out Gabriel from the dark. 

He continued scraping his feet vigorously while the three women wentupstairs, laughing, to the ladies' dressing-room. A light fringe of snowlay like a cape on the shoulders of his overcoat and like toecaps on thetoes of his goloshes; and, as the buttons of his overcoat slipped with asqueaking noise through the snow-stiffened frieze, a cold, fragrant airfrom out-of-doors escaped from crevices and folds. 

"Is it snowing again, Mr. Conroy?" asked Lily. 

She had preceded him into the pantry to help him off with his overcoat. Gabriel smiled at the three syllables she had given his surname andglanced at her. She was a slim; growing girl, pale in complexion andwith hay-coloured hair. The gas in the pantry made her look still paler. Gabriel had known her when she was a child and used to sit on the loweststep nursing a rag doll. 

"Yes, Lily, " he answered, "and I think we're in for a night of it. "

He looked up at the pantry ceiling, which was shaking with the stampingand shuffling of feet on the floor above, listened for a moment tothe piano and then glanced at the girl, who was folding his overcoatcarefully at the end of a shelf. 

"Tell me. Lily, " he said in a friendly tone, "do you still go toschool?"

"O no, sir, " she answered. "I'm done schooling this year and more. "

"O, then, " said Gabriel gaily, "I suppose we'll be going to your weddingone of these fine days with your young man, eh?"

The girl glanced back at him over her shoulder and said with greatbitterness:

"The men that is now is only all palaver and what they can get out ofyou. "

Gabriel coloured, as if he felt he had made a mistake and, withoutlooking at her, kicked off his goloshes and flicked actively with hismuffler at his patent-leather shoes. 

He was a stout, tallish young man. The high colour of his cheekspushed upwards even to his forehead, where it scattered itself in afew formless patches of pale red; and on his hairless face therescintillated restlessly the polished lenses and the bright gilt rims ofthe glasses which screened his delicate and restless eyes. His glossyblack hair was parted in the middle and brushed in a long curve behindhis ears where it curled slightly beneath the groove left by his hat. 

When he had flicked lustre into his shoes he stood up and pulled hiswaistcoat down more tightly on his plump body. Then he took a coinrapidly from his pocket. 

"O Lily, " he said, thrusting it into her hands, "it's Christmastime, isn't it? Just. . . Here's a little. . . . "

He walked rapidly towards the door. 

"O no, sir!" cried the girl, following him. "Really, sir, I wouldn'ttake it. "

"Christmas-time! Christmas-time!" said Gabriel, almost trotting to thestairs and waving his hand to her in deprecation. 

The girl, seeing that he had gained the stairs, called out after him:

"Well, thank you, sir. "

He waited outside the drawing-room door until the waltz should finish, listening to the skirts that swept against it and to the shuffling offeet. He was still discomposed by the girl's bitter and sudden retort. It had cast a gloom over him which he tried to dispel by arranging hiscuffs and the bows of his tie. He then took from his waistcoat pocket alittle paper and glanced at the headings he had made for his speech. Hewas undecided about the lines from Robert Browning, for he feared theywould be above the heads of his hearers. Some quotation that they wouldrecognise from Shakespeare or from the Melodies would be better. Theindelicate clacking of the men's heels and the shuffling of their solesreminded him that their grade of culture differed from his. He wouldonly make himself ridiculous by quoting poetry to them which theycould not understand. They would think that he was airing his superioreducation. He would fail with them just as he had failed with the girlin the pantry. He had taken up a wrong tone. His whole speech was amistake from first to last, an utter failure. 

Just then his aunts and his wife came out of the ladies' dressing-room. His aunts were two small, plainly dressed old women. Aunt Julia was aninch or so the taller. Her hair, drawn low over the tops of her ears, was grey; and grey also, with darker shadows, was her large flaccidface. Though she was stout in build and stood erect, her slow eyes andparted lips gave her the appearance of a woman who did not know whereshe was or where she was going. Aunt Kate was more vivacious. Herface, healthier than her sister's, was all puckers and creases, like ashrivelled red apple, and her hair, braided in the same old-fashionedway, had not lost its ripe nut colour. 

They both kissed Gabriel frankly. He was their favourite nephew the sonof their dead elder sister, Ellen, who had married T. J. Conroy of thePort and Docks. 

"Gretta tells me you're not going to take a cab back to Monkstowntonight, Gabriel, " said Aunt Kate. 

"No, " said Gabriel, turning to his wife, "we had quite enough of thatlast year, hadn't we? Don't you remember, Aunt Kate, what a cold Grettagot out of it? Cab windows rattling all the way, and the east windblowing in after we passed Merrion. Very jolly it was. Gretta caught adreadful cold. "

Aunt Kate frowned severely and nodded her head at every word. 

"Quite right, Gabriel, quite right, " she said. "You can't be toocareful. "

"But as for Gretta there, " said Gabriel, "she'd walk home in the snow ifshe were let. "

Mrs. Conroy laughed. 

"Don't mind him, Aunt Kate, " she said. "He's really an awful bother, what with green shades for Tom's eyes at night and making him do thedumb-bells, and forcing Eva to eat the stirabout. The poor child! Andshe simply hates the sight of it!. . . O, but you'll never guess what hemakes me wear now!"

She broke out into a peal of laughter and glanced at her husband, whoseadmiring and happy eyes had been wandering from her dress to her faceand hair. The two aunts laughed heartily, too, for Gabriel's solicitudewas a standing joke with them. 

"Goloshes!" said Mrs. Conroy. "That's the latest. Whenever it's wetunderfoot I must put on my galoshes. Tonight even, he wanted me to putthem on, but I wouldn't. The next thing he'll buy me will be a divingsuit. "

Gabriel laughed nervously and patted his tie reassuringly, while AuntKate nearly doubled herself, so heartily did she enjoy the joke. Thesmile soon faded from Aunt Julia's face and her mirthless eyes weredirected towards her nephew's face. After a pause she asked:

"And what are goloshes, Gabriel?"

"Goloshes, Julia!" exclaimed her sister "Goodness me, don't you knowwhat goloshes are? You wear them over your. . . Over your boots, Gretta, isn't it?"

"Yes, " said Mrs. Conroy. "Guttapercha things. We both have a pair now. Gabriel says everyone wears them on the Continent. "

"O, on the Continent, " murmured Aunt Julia, nodding her head slowly. 

Gabriel knitted his brows and said, as if he were slightly angered:

"It's nothing very wonderful, but Gretta thinks it very funny becauseshe says the word reminds her of Christy Minstrels. "

"But tell me, Gabriel, " said Aunt Kate, with brisk tact. "Of course, you've seen about the room. Gretta was saying. . . "

"O, the room is all right, " replied Gabriel. "I've taken one in theGresham. "

"To be sure, " said Aunt Kate, "by far the best thing to do. And thechildren, Gretta, you're not anxious about them?"

"O, for one night, " said Mrs. Conroy. "Besides, Bessie will look afterthem. "

"To be sure, " said Aunt Kate again. "What a comfort it is to have a girllike that, one you can depend on! There's that Lily, I'm sure I don'tknow what has come over her lately. She's not the girl she was at all. "

Gabriel was about to ask his aunt some questions on this point, but shebroke off suddenly to gaze after her sister, who had wandered down thestairs and was craning her neck over the banisters. 

"Now, I ask you, " she said almost testily, "where is Julia going? Julia!Julia! Where are you going?"

Julia, who had gone half way down one flight, came back and announcedblandly:

"Here's Freddy. "

At the same moment a clapping of hands and a final flourish of thepianist told that the waltz had ended. The drawing-room door was openedfrom within and some couples came out. Aunt Kate drew Gabriel asidehurriedly and whispered into his ear:

"Slip down, Gabriel, like a good fellow and see if he's all right, anddon't let him up if he's screwed. I'm sure he's screwed. I'm sure heis. "

Gabriel went to the stairs and listened over the banisters. He couldhear two persons talking in the pantry. Then he recognised FreddyMalins' laugh. He went down the stairs noisily. 

"It's such a relief, " said Aunt Kate to Mrs. Conroy, "that Gabriel ishere. I always feel easier in my mind when he's here. . . . Julia, there'sMiss Daly and Miss Power will take some refreshment. Thanks for yourbeautiful waltz, Miss Daly. It made lovely time. "

A tall wizen-faced man, with a stiff grizzled moustache and swarthyskin, who was passing out with his partner, said:

"And may we have some refreshment, too, Miss Morkan?"

"Julia, " said Aunt Kate summarily, "and here's Mr. Browne and MissFurlong. Take them in, Julia, with Miss Daly and Miss Power. "

"I'm the man for the ladies, " said Mr. Browne, pursing his lips untilhis moustache bristled and smiling in all his wrinkles. "You know, MissMorkan, the reason they are so fond of me is----"

He did not finish his sentence, but, seeing that Aunt Kate was out ofearshot, at once led the three young ladies into the back room. Themiddle of the room was occupied by two square tables placed end toend, and on these Aunt Julia and the caretaker were straighteningand smoothing a large cloth. On the sideboard were arrayed dishes andplates, and glasses and bundles of knives and forks and spoons. The topof the closed square piano served also as a sideboard for viandsand sweets. At a smaller sideboard in one corner two young men werestanding, drinking hop-bitters. 

Mr. Browne led his charges thither and invited them all, in jest, tosome ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet. As they said they never tookanything strong, he opened three bottles of lemonade for them. Thenhe asked one of the young men to move aside, and, taking hold of thedecanter, filled out for himself a goodly measure of whisky. The youngmen eyed him respectfully while he took a trial sip. 

"God help me, " he said, smiling, "it's the doctor's orders. "

His wizened face broke into a broader smile, and the three young ladieslaughed in musical echo to his pleasantry, swaying their bodies to andfro, with nervous jerks of their shoulders. The boldest said:

"O, now, Mr. Browne, I'm sure the doctor never ordered anything of thekind. "

Mr. Browne took another sip of his whisky and said, with sidlingmimicry:

"Well, you see, I'm like the famous Mrs. Cassidy, who is reported tohave said: 'Now, Mary Grimes, if I don't take it, make me take it, for Ifeel I want it. '"

His hot face had leaned forward a little too confidentially and he hadassumed a very low Dublin accent so that the young ladies, with oneinstinct, received his speech in silence. Miss Furlong, who was oneof Mary Jane's pupils, asked Miss Daly what was the name of the prettywaltz she had played; and Mr. Browne, seeing that he was ignored, turnedpromptly to the two young men who were more appreciative. 

A red-faced young woman, dressed in pansy, came into the room, excitedlyclapping her hands and crying:

"Quadrilles! Quadrilles!"

Close on her heels came Aunt Kate, crying:

"Two gentlemen and three ladies, Mary Jane!"

"O, here's Mr. Bergin and Mr. Kerrigan, " said Mary Jane. "Mr. Kerrigan, will you take Miss Power? Miss Furlong, may I get you a partner, Mr. Bergin. O, that'll just do now. "

"Three ladies, Mary Jane, " said Aunt Kate. 

The two young gentlemen asked the ladies if they might have thepleasure, and Mary Jane turned to Miss Daly. 

"O, Miss Daly, you're really awfully good, after playing for the lasttwo dances, but really we're so short of ladies tonight. "

"I don't mind in the least, Miss Morkan. "

"But I've a nice partner for you, Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, the tenor. I'llget him to sing later on. All Dublin is raving about him. "

"Lovely voice, lovely voice!" said Aunt Kate. 

As the piano had twice begun the prelude to the first figure Mary Janeled her recruits quickly from the room. They had hardly gone when AuntJulia wandered slowly into the room, looking behind her at something. 

"What is the matter, Julia?" asked Aunt Kate anxiously. "Who is it?"

Julia, who was carrying in a column of table-napkins, turned to hersister and said, simply, as if the question had surprised her:

"It's only Freddy, Kate, and Gabriel with him. "

In fact right behind her Gabriel could be seen piloting Freddy Malinsacross the landing. The latter, a young man of about forty, was ofGabriel's size and build, with very round shoulders. His face was fleshyand pallid, touched with colour only at the thick hanging lobes of hisears and at the wide wings of his nose. He had coarse features, ablunt nose, a convex and receding brow, tumid and protruded lips. Hisheavy-lidded eyes and the disorder of his scanty hair made him looksleepy. He was laughing heartily in a high key at a story which he hadbeen telling Gabriel on the stairs and at the same time rubbing theknuckles of his left fist backwards and forwards into his left eye. 

"Good-evening, Freddy, " said Aunt Julia. 

Freddy Malins bade the Misses Morkan good-evening in what seemed anoffhand fashion by reason of the habitual catch in his voice and then, seeing that Mr. Browne was grinning at him from the sideboard, crossedthe room on rather shaky legs and began to repeat in an undertone thestory he had just told to Gabriel. 

"He's not so bad, is he?" said Aunt Kate to Gabriel. 

Gabriel's brows were dark but he raised them quickly and answered:

"O, no, hardly noticeable. "

"Now, isn't he a terrible fellow!" she said. "And his poor mother madehim take the pledge on New Year's Eve. But come on, Gabriel, into thedrawing-room. "

Before leaving the room with Gabriel she signalled to Mr. Browne byfrowning and shaking her forefinger in warning to and fro. Mr. Brownenodded in answer and, when she had gone, said to Freddy Malins:

"Now, then, Teddy, I'm going to fill you out a good glass of lemonadejust to buck you up. "

Freddy Malins, who was nearing the climax of his story, waved the offeraside impatiently but Mr. Browne, having first called Freddy Malins'attention to a disarray in his dress, filled out and handed him afull glass of lemonade. Freddy Malins' left hand accepted theglass mechanically, his right hand being engaged in the mechanicalreadjustment of his dress. Mr. Browne, whose face was once morewrinkling with mirth, poured out for himself a glass of whisky whileFreddy Malins exploded, before he had well reached the climax of hisstory, in a kink of high-pitched bronchitic laughter and, setting downhis untasted and overflowing glass, began to rub the knuckles of hisleft fist backwards and forwards into his left eye, repeating words ofhis last phrase as well as his fit of laughter would allow him. 

Gabriel could not listen while Mary Jane was playing her Academy piece, full of runs and difficult passages, to the hushed drawing-room. Heliked music but the piece she was playing had no melody for him and hedoubted whether it had any melody for the other listeners, though theyhad begged Mary Jane to play something. Four young men, who had comefrom the refreshment-room to stand in the doorway at the sound of thepiano, had gone away quietly in couples after a few minutes. The onlypersons who seemed to follow the music were Mary Jane herself, her handsracing along the key-board or lifted from it at the pauses like thoseof a priestess in momentary imprecation, and Aunt Kate standing at herelbow to turn the page. 

Gabriel's eyes, irritated by the floor, which glittered with beeswaxunder the heavy chandelier, wandered to the wall above the piano. Apicture of the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet hung there and besideit was a picture of the two murdered princes in the Tower which AuntJulia had worked in red, blue and brown wools when she was a girl. Probably in the school they had gone to as girls that kind of work hadbeen taught for one year. His mother had worked for him as a birthdaypresent a waistcoat of purple tabinet, with little foxes' heads upon it, lined with brown satin and having round mulberry buttons. It was strangethat his mother had had no musical talent though Aunt Kate used to callher the brains carrier of the Morkan family. Both she and Julia hadalways seemed a little proud of their serious and matronly sister. Herphotograph stood before the pierglass. She held an open book on herknees and was pointing out something in it to Constantine who, dressedin a man-o-war suit, lay at her feet. It was she who had chosen the nameof her sons for she was very sensible of the dignity of family life. Thanks to her, Constantine was now senior curate in Balbrigan and, thanks to her, Gabriel himself had taken his degree in the RoyalUniversity. A shadow passed over his face as he remembered her sullenopposition to his marriage. Some slighting phrases she had used stillrankled in his memory; she had once spoken of Gretta as being countrycute and that was not true of Gretta at all. It was Gretta who hadnursed her during all her last long illness in their house at Monkstown. 

He knew that Mary Jane must be near the end of her piece for she wasplaying again the opening melody with runs of scales after every bar andwhile he waited for the end the resentment died down in his heart. The piece ended with a trill of octaves in the treble and a final deepoctave in the bass. Great applause greeted Mary Jane as, blushing androlling up her music nervously, she escaped from the room. The mostvigorous clapping came from the four young men in the doorway who hadgone away to the refreshment-room at the beginning of the piece but hadcome back when the piano had stopped. 

Lancers were arranged. Gabriel found himself partnered with Miss Ivors. She was a frank-mannered talkative young lady, with a freckled face andprominent brown eyes. She did not wear a low-cut bodice and the largebrooch which was fixed in the front of her collar bore on it an Irishdevice and motto. 

When they had taken their places she said abruptly:

"I have a crow to pluck with you. "

"With me?" said Gabriel. 

She nodded her head gravely. 

"What is it?" asked Gabriel, smiling at her solemn manner. 

"Who is G. C. ?" answered Miss Ivors, turning her eyes upon him. 

Gabriel coloured and was about to knit his brows, as if he did notunderstand, when she said bluntly:

"O, innocent Amy! I have found out that you write for The Daily Express. Now, aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"Why should I be ashamed of myself?" asked Gabriel, blinking his eyesand trying to smile. 

"Well, I'm ashamed of you, " said Miss Ivors frankly. "To say you'd writefor a paper like that. I didn't think you were a West Briton. "

A look of perplexity appeared on Gabriel's face. It was true that hewrote a literary column every Wednesday in The Daily Express, for whichhe was paid fifteen shillings. But that did not make him a West Britonsurely. The books he received for review were almost more welcome thanthe paltry cheque. He loved to feel the covers and turn over the pagesof newly printed books. Nearly every day when his teaching in thecollege was ended he used to wander down the quays to the second-handbooksellers, to Hickey's on Bachelor's Walk, to Web's or Massey's onAston's Quay, or to O'Clohissey's in the bystreet. He did not know howto meet her charge. He wanted to say that literature was above politics. But they were friends of many years' standing and their careers had beenparallel, first at the University and then as teachers: he could notrisk a grandiose phrase with her. He continued blinking his eyes andtrying to smile and murmured lamely that he saw nothing political inwriting reviews of books. 

When their turn to cross had come he was still perplexed andinattentive. Miss Ivors promptly took his hand in a warm grasp and saidin a soft friendly tone:

"Of course, I was only joking. Come, we cross now. "

When they were together again she spoke of the University question andGabriel felt more at ease. A friend of hers had shown her his reviewof Browning's poems. That was how she had found out the secret: but sheliked the review immensely. Then she said suddenly:

"O, Mr. Conroy, will you come for an excursion to the Aran Isles thissummer? We're going to stay there a whole month. It will be splendidout in the Atlantic. You ought to come. Mr. Clancy is coming, and Mr. Kilkelly and Kathleen Kearney. It would be splendid for Gretta too ifshe'd come. She's from Connacht, isn't she?"

"Her people are, " said Gabriel shortly. 

"But you will come, won't you?" said Miss Ivors, laying her arm handeagerly on his arm. 

"The fact is, " said Gabriel, "I have just arranged to go----"

"Go where?" asked Miss Ivors. 

"Well, you know, every year I go for a cycling tour with some fellowsand so----"

"But where?" asked Miss Ivors. 

"Well, we usually go to France or Belgium or perhaps Germany, " saidGabriel awkwardly. 

"And why do you go to France and Belgium, " said Miss Ivors, "instead ofvisiting your own land?"

"Well, " said Gabriel, "it's partly to keep in touch with the languagesand partly for a change. "

"And haven't you your own language to keep in touch with--Irish?" askedMiss Ivors. 

"Well, " said Gabriel, "if it comes to that, you know, Irish is not mylanguage. "

Their neighbours had turned to listen to the cross-examination. Gabrielglanced right and left nervously and tried to keep his good humour underthe ordeal which was making a blush invade his forehead. 

"And haven't you your own land to visit, " continued Miss Ivors, "thatyou know nothing of, your own people, and your own country?"

"O, to tell you the truth, " retorted Gabriel suddenly, "I'm sick of myown country, sick of it!"

"Why?" asked Miss Ivors. 

Gabriel did not answer for his retort had heated him. 

"Why?" repeated Miss Ivors. 

They had to go visiting together and, as he had not answered her, MissIvors said warmly:

"Of course, you've no answer. "

Gabriel tried to cover his agitation by taking part in the dance withgreat energy. He avoided her eyes for he had seen a sour expression onher face. But when they met in the long chain he was surprised to feelhis hand firmly pressed. She looked at him from under her brows for amoment quizzically until he smiled. Then, just as the chain was about tostart again, she stood on tiptoe and whispered into his ear:

"West Briton!"

When the lancers were over Gabriel went away to a remote corner of theroom where Freddy Malins' mother was sitting. She was a stout feeble oldwoman with white hair. Her voice had a catch in it like her son's andshe stuttered slightly. She had been told that Freddy had come and thathe was nearly all right. Gabriel asked her whether she had had a goodcrossing. She lived with her married daughter in Glasgow and came toDublin on a visit once a year. She answered placidly that she had had abeautiful crossing and that the captain had been most attentive to her. She spoke also of the beautiful house her daughter kept in Glasgow, andof all the friends they had there. While her tongue rambled on Gabrieltried to banish from his mind all memory of the unpleasant incident withMiss Ivors. Of course the girl or woman, or whatever she was, was anenthusiast but there was a time for all things. Perhaps he ought notto have answered her like that. But she had no right to call him a WestBriton before people, even in joke. She had tried to make him ridiculousbefore people, heckling him and staring at him with her rabbit's eyes. 

He saw his wife making her way towards him through the waltzing couples. When she reached him she said into his ear:

"Gabriel. Aunt Kate wants to know won't you carve the goose as usual. Miss Daly will carve the ham and I'll do the pudding. "

"All right, " said Gabriel. 

"She's sending in the younger ones first as soon as this waltz is overso that we'll have the table to ourselves. "

"Were you dancing?" asked Gabriel. 

"Of course I was. Didn't you see me? What row had you with Molly Ivors?"

"No row. Why? Did she say so?"

"Something like that. I'm trying to get that Mr. D'Arcy to sing. He'sfull of conceit, I think. "

"There was no row, " said Gabriel moodily, "only she wanted me to go fora trip to the west of Ireland and I said I wouldn't. "

His wife clasped her hands excitedly and gave a little jump. 

"O, do go, Gabriel, " she cried. "I'd love to see Galway again. "

"You can go if you like, " said Gabriel coldly. 

She looked at him for a moment, then turned to Mrs. Malins and said:

"There's a nice husband for you, Mrs. Malins. "

While she was threading her way back across the room Mrs. Malins, without adverting to the interruption, went on to tell Gabriel whatbeautiful places there were in Scotland and beautiful scenery. Herson-in-law brought them every year to the lakes and they used to gofishing. Her son-in-law was a splendid fisher. One day he caught abeautiful big fish and the man in the hotel cooked it for their dinner. 

Gabriel hardly heard what she said. Now that supper was coming near hebegan to think again about his speech and about the quotation. When hesaw Freddy Malins coming across the room to visit his mother Gabrielleft the chair free for him and retired into the embrasure of thewindow. The room had already cleared and from the back room came theclatter of plates and knives. Those who still remained in the drawingroom seemed tired of dancing and were conversing quietly in littlegroups. Gabriel's warm trembling fingers tapped the cold pane of thewindow. How cool it must be outside! How pleasant it would be to walkout alone, first along by the river and then through the park! The snowwould be lying on the branches of the trees and forming a bright cap onthe top of the Wellington Monument. How much more pleasant it would bethere than at the supper-table!

He ran over the headings of his speech: Irish hospitality, sad memories, the Three Graces, Paris, the quotation from Browning. He repeated tohimself a phrase he had written in his review: "One feels that one islistening to a thought-tormented music. " Miss Ivors had praised thereview. Was she sincere? Had she really any life of her own behind allher propagandism? There had never been any ill-feeling between themuntil that night. It unnerved him to think that she would be at thesupper-table, looking up at him while he spoke with her criticalquizzing eyes. Perhaps she would not be sorry to see him fail in hisspeech. An idea came into his mind and gave him courage. He wouldsay, alluding to Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia: "Ladies and Gentlemen, thegeneration which is now on the wane among us may have had its faults butfor my part I think it had certain qualities of hospitality, of humour, of humanity, which the new and very serious and hypereducated generationthat is growing up around us seems to me to lack. " Very good: thatwas one for Miss Ivors. What did he care that his aunts were only twoignorant old women?

A murmur in the room attracted his attention. Mr. Browne was advancingfrom the door, gallantly escorting Aunt Julia, who leaned upon his arm, smiling and hanging her head. An irregular musketry of applause escortedher also as far as the piano and then, as Mary Jane seated herself onthe stool, and Aunt Julia, no longer smiling, half turned so as to pitchher voice fairly into the room, gradually ceased. Gabriel recognisedthe prelude. It was that of an old song of Aunt Julia's--Arrayed for theBridal. Her voice, strong and clear in tone, attacked with great spiritthe runs which embellish the air and though she sang very rapidly shedid not miss even the smallest of the grace notes. To follow thevoice, without looking at the singer's face, was to feel and share theexcitement of swift and secure flight. Gabriel applauded loudly with allthe others at the close of the song and loud applause was borne in fromthe invisible supper-table. It sounded so genuine that a littlecolour struggled into Aunt Julia's face as she bent to replace in themusic-stand the old leather-bound songbook that had her initials on thecover. Freddy Malins, who had listened with his head perched sideways tohear her better, was still applauding when everyone else had ceased andtalking animatedly to his mother who nodded her head gravely and slowlyin acquiescence. At last, when he could clap no more, he stood upsuddenly and hurried across the room to Aunt Julia whose hand he seizedand held in both his hands, shaking it when words failed him or thecatch in his voice proved too much for him. 

"I was just telling my mother, " he said, "I never heard you sing sowell, never. No, I never heard your voice so good as it is tonight. Now!Would you believe that now? That's the truth. Upon my word and honourthat's the truth. I never heard your voice sound so fresh and so. . . Soclear and fresh, never. "

Aunt Julia smiled broadly and murmured something about compliments asshe released her hand from his grasp. Mr. Browne extended his openhand towards her and said to those who were near him in the manner of ashowman introducing a prodigy to an audience:

"Miss Julia Morkan, my latest discovery!"

He was laughing very heartily at this himself when Freddy Malins turnedto him and said:

"Well, Browne, if you're serious you might make a worse discovery. AllI can say is I never heard her sing half so well as long as I am cominghere. And that's the honest truth. "

"Neither did I, " said Mr. Browne. "I think her voice has greatlyimproved. "

Aunt Julia shrugged her shoulders and said with meek pride:

"Thirty years ago I hadn't a bad voice as voices go. "

"I often told Julia, " said Aunt Kate emphatically, "that she was simplythrown away in that choir. But she never would be said by me. "

She turned as if to appeal to the good sense of the others against arefractory child while Aunt Julia gazed in front of her, a vague smileof reminiscence playing on her face. 

"No, " continued Aunt Kate, "she wouldn't be said or led by anyone, slaving there in that choir night and day, night and day. Six o'clock onChristmas morning! And all for what?"

"Well, isn't it for the honour of God, Aunt Kate?" asked Mary Jane, twisting round on the piano-stool and smiling. 

Aunt Kate turned fiercely on her niece and said:

"I know all about the honour of God, Mary Jane, but I think it's not atall honourable for the pope to turn out the women out of the choirs thathave slaved there all their lives and put little whipper-snappers ofboys over their heads. I suppose it is for the good of the Church if thepope does it. But it's not just, Mary Jane, and it's not right. "

She had worked herself into a passion and would have continued indefence of her sister for it was a sore subject with her but Mary Jane, seeing that all the dancers had come back, intervened pacifically:

"Now, Aunt Kate, you're giving scandal to Mr. Browne who is of the otherpersuasion. "

Aunt Kate turned to Mr. Browne, who was grinning at this allusion to hisreligion, and said hastily:

"O, I don't question the pope's being right. I'm only a stupid old womanand I wouldn't presume to do such a thing. But there's such a thing ascommon everyday politeness and gratitude. And if I were in Julia's placeI'd tell that Father Healey straight up to his face. . . "

"And besides, Aunt Kate, " said Mary Jane, "we really are all hungry andwhen we are hungry we are all very quarrelsome. "

"And when we are thirsty we are also quarrelsome, " added Mr. Browne. 

"So that we had better go to supper, " said Mary Jane, "and finish thediscussion afterwards. "

On the landing outside the drawing-room Gabriel found his wife and MaryJane trying to persuade Miss Ivors to stay for supper. But Miss Ivors, who had put on her hat and was buttoning her cloak, would not stay. She did not feel in the least hungry and she had already overstayed hertime. 

"But only for ten minutes, Molly, " said Mrs. Conroy. "That won't delayyou. "

"To take a pick itself, " said Mary Jane, "after all your dancing. "

"I really couldn't, " said Miss Ivors. 

"I am afraid you didn't enjoy yourself at all, " said Mary Janehopelessly. 

"Ever so much, I assure you, " said Miss Ivors, "but you really must letme run off now. "

"But how can you get home?" asked Mrs. Conroy. 

"O, it's only two steps up the quay. "

Gabriel hesitated a moment and said:

"If you will allow me, Miss Ivors, I'll see you home if you are reallyobliged to go. "

But Miss Ivors broke away from them. 

"I won't hear of it, " she cried. "For goodness' sake go in to yoursuppers and don't mind me. I'm quite well able to take care of myself. "

"Well, you're the comical girl, Molly, " said Mrs. Conroy frankly. 

"Beannacht libh, " cried Miss Ivors, with a laugh, as she ran down thestaircase. 

Mary Jane gazed after her, a moody puzzled expression on her face, while Mrs. Conroy leaned over the banisters to listen for the hall-door. Gabriel asked himself was he the cause of her abrupt departure. But shedid not seem to be in ill humour: she had gone away laughing. He staredblankly down the staircase. 

At the moment Aunt Kate came toddling out of the supper-room, almostwringing her hands in despair. 

"Where is Gabriel?" she cried. "Where on earth is Gabriel? There'severyone waiting in there, stage to let, and nobody to carve the goose!"

"Here I am, Aunt Kate!" cried Gabriel, with sudden animation, "ready tocarve a flock of geese, if necessary. "

A fat brown goose lay at one end of the table and at the other end, ona bed of creased paper strewn with sprigs of parsley, lay a great ham, stripped of its outer skin and peppered over with crust crumbs, a neatpaper frill round its shin and beside this was a round of spiced beef. Between these rival ends ran parallel lines of side-dishes: two littleminsters of jelly, red and yellow; a shallow dish full of blocksof blancmange and red jam, a large green leaf-shaped dish with astalk-shaped handle, on which lay bunches of purple raisins and peeledalmonds, a companion dish on which lay a solid rectangle of Smyrnafigs, a dish of custard topped with grated nutmeg, a small bowl full ofchocolates and sweets wrapped in gold and silver papers and a glass vasein which stood some tall celery stalks. In the centre of the table therestood, as sentries to a fruit-stand which upheld a pyramid of orangesand American apples, two squat old-fashioned decanters of cut glass, onecontaining port and the other dark sherry. On the closed square pianoa pudding in a huge yellow dish lay in waiting and behind it were threesquads of bottles of stout and ale and minerals, drawn up according tothe colours of their uniforms, the first two black, with brown andred labels, the third and smallest squad white, with transverse greensashes. 

Gabriel took his seat boldly at the head of the table and, having lookedto the edge of the carver, plunged his fork firmly into the goose. Hefelt quite at ease now for he was an expert carver and liked nothingbetter than to find himself at the head of a well-laden table. 

"Miss Furlong, what shall I send you?" he asked. "A wing or a slice ofthe breast?"

"Just a small slice of the breast. "

"Miss Higgins, what for you?"

"O, anything at all, Mr. Conroy. "

While Gabriel and Miss Daly exchanged plates of goose and plates of hamand spiced beef Lily went from guest to guest with a dish of hot flourypotatoes wrapped in a white napkin. This was Mary Jane's idea and shehad also suggested apple sauce for the goose but Aunt Kate had said thatplain roast goose without any apple sauce had always been good enoughfor her and she hoped she might never eat worse. Mary Jane waited onher pupils and saw that they got the best slices and Aunt Kate and AuntJulia opened and carried across from the piano bottles of stout and alefor the gentlemen and bottles of minerals for the ladies. There was agreat deal of confusion and laughter and noise, the noise of ordersand counter-orders, of knives and forks, of corks and glass-stoppers. Gabriel began to carve second helpings as soon as he had finished thefirst round without serving himself. Everyone protested loudly so thathe compromised by taking a long draught of stout for he had found thecarving hot work. Mary Jane settled down quietly to her supper but AuntKate and Aunt Julia were still toddling round the table, walking oneach other's heels, getting in each other's way and giving each otherunheeded orders. Mr. Browne begged of them to sit down and eat theirsuppers and so did Gabriel but they said there was time enough, so that, at last, Freddy Malins stood up and, capturing Aunt Kate, plumped herdown on her chair amid general laughter. 

When everyone had been well served Gabriel said, smiling:

"Now, if anyone wants a little more of what vulgar people call stuffinglet him or her speak. "

A chorus of voices invited him to begin his own supper and Lily cameforward with three potatoes which she had reserved for him. 

"Very well, " said Gabriel amiably, as he took another preparatorydraught, "kindly forget my existence, ladies and gentlemen, for a fewminutes. "

He set to his supper and took no part in the conversation with which thetable covered Lily's removal of the plates. The subject of talk was theopera company which was then at the Theatre Royal. Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, the tenor, a dark-complexioned young man with a smart moustache, praisedvery highly the leading contralto of the company but Miss Furlongthought she had a rather vulgar style of production. Freddy Malins saidthere was a Negro chieftain singing in the second part of the Gaietypantomime who had one of the finest tenor voices he had ever heard. 

"Have you heard him?" he asked Mr. Bartell D'Arcy across the table. 

"No, " answered Mr. Bartell D'Arcy carelessly. 

"Because, " Freddy Malins explained, "now I'd be curious to hear youropinion of him. I think he has a grand voice. "

"It takes Teddy to find out the really good things, " said Mr. Brownefamiliarly to the table. 

"And why couldn't he have a voice too?" asked Freddy Malins sharply. "Isit because he's only a black?"

Nobody answered this question and Mary Jane led the table back to thelegitimate opera. One of her pupils had given her a pass for Mignon. Of course it was very fine, she said, but it made her think of poorGeorgina Burns. Mr. Browne could go back farther still, to the oldItalian companies that used to come to Dublin--Tietjens, Ilma de Murzka, Campanini, the great Trebelli, Giuglini, Ravelli, Aramburo. Those werethe days, he said, when there was something like singing to be heard inDublin. He told too of how the top gallery of the old Royal used to bepacked night after night, of how one night an Italian tenor had sungfive encores to Let me like a Soldier fall, introducing a high C everytime, and of how the gallery boys would sometimes in their enthusiasmunyoke the horses from the carriage of some great prima donna and pullher themselves through the streets to her hotel. Why did they never playthe grand old operas now, he asked, Dinorah, Lucrezia Borgia? Becausethey could not get the voices to sing them: that was why. 

"Oh, well, " said Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, "I presume there are as goodsingers today as there were then. "

"Where are they?" asked Mr. Browne defiantly. 

"In London, Paris, Milan, " said Mr. Bartell D'Arcy warmly. "I supposeCaruso, for example, is quite as good, if not better than any of the menyou have mentioned. "

"Maybe so, " said Mr. Browne. "But I may tell you I doubt it strongly. "

"O, I'd give anything to hear Caruso sing, " said Mary Jane. 

"For me, " said Aunt Kate, who had been picking a bone, "there was onlyone tenor. To please me, I mean. But I suppose none of you ever heard ofhim. "

"Who was he, Miss Morkan?" asked Mr. Bartell D'Arcy politely. 

"His name, " said Aunt Kate, "was Parkinson. I heard him when he was inhis prime and I think he had then the purest tenor voice that was everput into a man's throat. "

"Strange, " said Mr. Bartell D'Arcy. "I never even heard of him. "

"Yes, yes, Miss Morkan is right, " said Mr. Browne. "I remember hearingof old Parkinson but he's too far back for me. "

"A beautiful, pure, sweet, mellow English tenor, " said Aunt Kate withenthusiasm. 

Gabriel having finished, the huge pudding was transferred to the table. The clatter of forks and spoons began again. Gabriel's wife served outspoonfuls of the pudding and passed the plates down the table. Midwaydown they were held up by Mary Jane, who replenished them with raspberryor orange jelly or with blancmange and jam. The pudding was of AuntJulia's making and she received praises for it from all quarters Sheherself said that it was not quite brown enough. 

"Well, I hope, Miss Morkan, " said Mr. Browne, "that I'm brown enough foryou because, you know, I'm all brown. "

All the gentlemen, except Gabriel, ate some of the pudding out ofcompliment to Aunt Julia. As Gabriel never ate sweets the celery hadbeen left for him. Freddy Malins also took a stalk of celery and ate itwith his pudding. He had been told that celery was a capital thing forthe blood and he was just then under doctor's care. Mrs. Malins, who hadbeen silent all through the supper, said that her son was going down toMount Melleray in a week or so. The table then spoke of Mount Melleray, how bracing the air was down there, how hospitable the monks were andhow they never asked for a penny-piece from their guests. 

"And do you mean to say, " asked Mr. Browne incredulously, "that a chapcan go down there and put up there as if it were a hotel and live on thefat of the land and then come away without paying anything?"

"O, most people give some donation to the monastery when they leave. "said Mary Jane. 

"I wish we had an institution like that in our Church, " said Mr. Brownecandidly. 

He was astonished to hear that the monks never spoke, got up at two inthe morning and slept in their coffins. He asked what they did it for. 

"That's the rule of the order, " said Aunt Kate firmly. 

"Yes, but why?" asked Mr. Browne. 

Aunt Kate repeated that it was the rule, that was all. Mr. Browne stillseemed not to understand. Freddy Malins explained to him, as best hecould, that the monks were trying to make up for the sins committed byall the sinners in the outside world. The explanation was not very clearfor Mr. Browne grinned and said:

"I like that idea very much but wouldn't a comfortable spring bed dothem as well as a coffin?"

"The coffin, " said Mary Jane, "is to remind them of their last end. "

As the subject had grown lugubrious it was buried in a silence of thetable during which Mrs. Malins could be heard saying to her neighbour inan indistinct undertone:

"They are very good men, the monks, very pious men. "

The raisins and almonds and figs and apples and oranges and chocolatesand sweets were now passed about the table and Aunt Julia invited allthe guests to have either port or sherry. At first Mr. Bartell D'Arcyrefused to take either but one of his neighbours nudged him andwhispered something to him upon which he allowed his glass to be filled. Gradually as the last glasses were being filled the conversationceased. A pause followed, broken only by the noise of the wine and byunsettlings of chairs. The Misses Morkan, all three, looked down atthe tablecloth. Someone coughed once or twice and then a few gentlemenpatted the table gently as a signal for silence. The silence came andGabriel pushed back his chair. 

The patting at once grew louder in encouragement and then ceasedaltogether. Gabriel leaned his ten trembling fingers on the tableclothand smiled nervously at the company. Meeting a row of upturned faces heraised his eyes to the chandelier. The piano was playing a waltz tuneand he could hear the skirts sweeping against the drawing-room door. People, perhaps, were standing in the snow on the quay outside, gazingup at the lighted windows and listening to the waltz music. The air waspure there. In the distance lay the park where the trees were weightedwith snow. The Wellington Monument wore a gleaming cap of snow thatflashed westward over the white field of Fifteen Acres. 

He began:

"Ladies and Gentlemen, "It has fallen to my lot this evening, as in years past, to perform avery pleasing task but a task for which I am afraid my poor powers as aspeaker are all too inadequate. "

"No, no!" said Mr. Browne. 

"But, however that may be, I can only ask you tonight to take the willfor the deed and to lend me your attention for a few moments whileI endeavour to express to you in words what my feelings are on thisoccasion. 

"Ladies and Gentlemen, it is not the first time that we have gatheredtogether under this hospitable roof, around this hospitable board. It isnot the first time that we have been the recipients--or perhaps, I hadbetter say, the victims--of the hospitality of certain good ladies. "

He made a circle in the air with his arm and paused. Everyone laughed orsmiled at Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia and Mary Jane who all turned crimsonwith pleasure. Gabriel went on more boldly:

"I feel more strongly with every recurring year that our country hasno tradition which does it so much honour and which it should guard sojealously as that of its hospitality. It is a tradition that is uniqueas far as my experience goes (and I have visited not a few placesabroad) among the modern nations. Some would say, perhaps, that with usit is rather a failing than anything to be boasted of. But granted eventhat, it is, to my mind, a princely failing, and one that I trust willlong be cultivated among us. Of one thing, at least, I am sure. As longas this one roof shelters the good ladies aforesaid--and I wish from myheart it may do so for many and many a long year to come--the traditionof genuine warm-hearted courteous Irish hospitality, which ourforefathers have handed down to us and which we in turn must hand downto our descendants, is still alive among us. "

A hearty murmur of assent ran round the table. It shot throughGabriel's mind that Miss Ivors was not there and that she had gone awaydiscourteously: and he said with confidence in himself:

"Ladies and Gentlemen, "A new generation is growing up in our midst, a generation actuated bynew ideas and new principles. It is serious and enthusiastic forthese new ideas and its enthusiasm, even when it is misdirected, is, Ibelieve, in the main sincere. But we are living in a sceptical and, ifI may use the phrase, a thought-tormented age: and sometimes I fear thatthis new generation, educated or hypereducated as it is, will lack thosequalities of humanity, of hospitality, of kindly humour which belongedto an older day. Listening tonight to the names of all those greatsingers of the past it seemed to me, I must confess, that we were livingin a less spacious age. Those days might, without exaggeration, becalled spacious days: and if they are gone beyond recall let us hope, atleast, that in gatherings such as this we shall still speak of them withpride and affection, still cherish in our hearts the memory of thosedead and gone great ones whose fame the world will not willingly letdie. "

"Hear, hear!" said Mr. Browne loudly. 

"But yet, " continued Gabriel, his voice falling into a softerinflection, "there are always in gatherings such as this sadder thoughtsthat will recur to our minds: thoughts of the past, of youth, ofchanges, of absent faces that we miss here tonight. Our path throughlife is strewn with many such sad memories: and were we to brood uponthem always we could not find the heart to go on bravely with our workamong the living. We have all of us living duties and living affectionswhich claim, and rightly claim, our strenuous endeavours. 

"Therefore, I will not linger on the past. I will not let any gloomymoralising intrude upon us here tonight. Here we are gathered togetherfor a brief moment from the bustle and rush of our everyday routine. We are met here as friends, in the spirit of good-fellowship, ascolleagues, also to a certain extent, in the true spirit of camaraderie, and as the guests of--what shall I call them?--the Three Graces of theDublin musical world. "

The table burst into applause and laughter at this allusion. Aunt Juliavainly asked each of her neighbours in turn to tell her what Gabriel hadsaid. 

"He says we are the Three Graces, Aunt Julia, " said Mary Jane. 

Aunt Julia did not understand but she looked up, smiling, at Gabriel, who continued in the same vein:

"Ladies and Gentlemen, "I will not attempt to play tonight the part that Paris played onanother occasion. I will not attempt to choose between them. The taskwould be an invidious one and one beyond my poor powers. For when I viewthem in turn, whether it be our chief hostess herself, whose good heart, whose too good heart, has become a byword with all who know her, or hersister, who seems to be gifted with perennial youth and whose singingmust have been a surprise and a revelation to us all tonight, or, lastbut not least, when I consider our youngest hostess, talented, cheerful, hard-working and the best of nieces, I confess, Ladies and Gentlemen, that I do not know to which of them I should award the prize. "

Gabriel glanced down at his aunts and, seeing the large smile on AuntJulia's face and the tears which had risen to Aunt Kate's eyes, hastenedto his close. He raised his glass of port gallantly, while every memberof the company fingered a glass expectantly, and said loudly:

"Let us toast them all three together. Let us drink to their health, wealth, long life, happiness and prosperity and may they long continueto hold the proud and self-won position which they hold in theirprofession and the position of honour and affection which they hold inour hearts. "

All the guests stood up, glass in hand, and turning towards the threeseated ladies, sang in unison, with Mr. Browne as leader:

 For they are jolly gay fellows, For they are jolly gay fellows, For they are jolly gay fellows, Which nobody can deny. 

Aunt Kate was making frank use of her handkerchief and even Aunt Juliaseemed moved. Freddy Malins beat time with his pudding-fork and thesingers turned towards one another, as if in melodious conference, whilethey sang with emphasis:

 Unless he tells a lie, Unless he tells a lie, Then, turning once more towards their hostesses, they sang:

 For they are jolly gay fellows, For they are jolly gay fellows, For they are jolly gay fellows, Which nobody can deny. 

The acclamation which followed was taken up beyond the door of thesupper-room by many of the other guests and renewed time after time, Freddy Malins acting as officer with his fork on high. 

The piercing morning air came into the hall where they were standing sothat Aunt Kate said:

"Close the door, somebody. Mrs. Malins will get her death of cold. "

"Browne is out there, Aunt Kate, " said Mary Jane. 

"Browne is everywhere, " said Aunt Kate, lowering her voice. 

Mary Jane laughed at her tone. 

"Really, " she said archly, "he is very attentive. "

"He has been laid on here like the gas, " said Aunt Kate in the sametone, "all during the Christmas. "

She laughed herself this time good-humouredly and then added quickly:

"But tell him to come in, Mary Jane, and close the door. I hope togoodness he didn't hear me. "

At that moment the hall-door was opened and Mr. Browne came in from thedoorstep, laughing as if his heart would break. He was dressed in a longgreen overcoat with mock astrakhan cuffs and collar and wore on his headan oval fur cap. He pointed down the snow-covered quay from where thesound of shrill prolonged whistling was borne in. 

"Teddy will have all the cabs in Dublin out, " he said. 

Gabriel advanced from the little pantry behind the office, strugglinginto his overcoat and, looking round the hall, said:

"Gretta not down yet?"

"She's getting on her things, Gabriel, " said Aunt Kate. 

"Who's playing up there?" asked Gabriel. 

"Nobody. They're all gone. "

"O no, Aunt Kate, " said Mary Jane. "Bartell D'Arcy and Miss O'Callaghanaren't gone yet. "

"Someone is fooling at the piano anyhow, " said Gabriel. 

Mary Jane glanced at Gabriel and Mr. Browne and said with a shiver:

"It makes me feel cold to look at you two gentlemen muffled up likethat. I wouldn't like to face your journey home at this hour. "

"I'd like nothing better this minute, " said Mr. Browne stoutly, "than arattling fine walk in the country or a fast drive with a good spankinggoer between the shafts. "

"We used to have a very good horse and trap at home, " said Aunt Juliasadly. 

"The never-to-be-forgotten Johnny, " said Mary Jane, laughing. 

Aunt Kate and Gabriel laughed too. 

"Why, what was wonderful about Johnny?" asked Mr. Browne. 

"The late lamented Patrick Morkan, our grandfather, that is, " explainedGabriel, "commonly known in his later years as the old gentleman, was aglue-boiler. "

"O, now, Gabriel, " said Aunt Kate, laughing, "he had a starch mill. "

"Well, glue or starch, " said Gabriel, "the old gentleman had a horse bythe name of Johnny. And Johnny used to work in the old gentleman's mill, walking round and round in order to drive the mill. That was all verywell; but now comes the tragic part about Johnny. One fine day the oldgentleman thought he'd like to drive out with the quality to a militaryreview in the park. "

"The Lord have mercy on his soul, " said Aunt Kate compassionately. 

"Amen, " said Gabriel. "So the old gentleman, as I said, harnessed Johnnyand put on his very best tall hat and his very best stock collar anddrove out in grand style from his ancestral mansion somewhere near BackLane, I think. "

Everyone laughed, even Mrs. Malins, at Gabriel's manner and Aunt Katesaid:

"O, now, Gabriel, he didn't live in Back Lane, really. Only the mill wasthere. "

"Out from the mansion of his forefathers, " continued Gabriel, "he drovewith Johnny. And everything went on beautifully until Johnny came insight of King Billy's statue: and whether he fell in love with the horseKing Billy sits on or whether he thought he was back again in the mill, anyhow he began to walk round the statue. "

Gabriel paced in a circle round the hall in his goloshes amid thelaughter of the others. 

"Round and round he went, " said Gabriel, "and the old gentleman, who wasa very pompous old gentleman, was highly indignant. 'Go on, sir! Whatdo you mean, sir? Johnny! Johnny! Most extraordinary conduct! Can'tunderstand the horse!"

The peal of laughter which followed Gabriel's imitation of the incidentwas interrupted by a resounding knock at the hall door. Mary Jane ran toopen it and let in Freddy Malins. Freddy Malins, with his hat well backon his head and his shoulders humped with cold, was puffing and steamingafter his exertions. 

"I could only get one cab, " he said. 

"O, we'll find another along the quay, " said Gabriel. 

"Yes, " said Aunt Kate. "Better not keep Mrs. Malins standing in thedraught. "

Mrs. Malins was helped down the front steps by her son and Mr. Browneand, after many manoeuvres, hoisted into the cab. Freddy Malinsclambered in after her and spent a long time settling her on the seat, Mr. Browne helping him with advice. At last she was settled comfortablyand Freddy Malins invited Mr. Browne into the cab. There was a gooddeal of confused talk, and then Mr. Browne got into the cab. The cabmansettled his rug over his knees, and bent down for the address. Theconfusion grew greater and the cabman was directed differently by FreddyMalins and Mr. Browne, each of whom had his head out through a window ofthe cab. The difficulty was to know where to drop Mr. Browne along theroute, and Aunt Kate, Aunt Julia and Mary Jane helped the discussionfrom the doorstep with cross-directions and contradictions and abundanceof laughter. As for Freddy Malins he was speechless with laughter. He popped his head in and out of the window every moment to thegreat danger of his hat, and told his mother how the discussion wasprogressing, till at last Mr. Browne shouted to the bewildered cabmanabove the din of everybody's laughter:

"Do you know Trinity College?"

"Yes, sir, " said the cabman. 

"Well, drive bang up against Trinity College gates, " said Mr. Browne, "and then we'll tell you where to go. You understand now?"

"Yes, sir, " said the cabman. 

"Make like a bird for Trinity College. "

"Right, sir, " said the cabman. 

The horse was whipped up and the cab rattled off along the quay amid achorus of laughter and adieus. 

Gabriel had not gone to the door with the others. He was in a dark partof the hall gazing up the staircase. A woman was standing near the topof the first flight, in the shadow also. He could not see her face buthe could see the terra-cotta and salmon-pink panels of her skirt whichthe shadow made appear black and white. It was his wife. She was leaningon the banisters, listening to something. Gabriel was surprised at herstillness and strained his ear to listen also. But he could hear littlesave the noise of laughter and dispute on the front steps, a few chordsstruck on the piano and a few notes of a man's voice singing. 

He stood still in the gloom of the hall, trying to catch the air thatthe voice was singing and gazing up at his wife. There was grace andmystery in her attitude as if she were a symbol of something. He askedhimself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listeningto distant music, a symbol of. If he were a painter he would paint herin that attitude. Her blue felt hat would show off the bronze of herhair against the darkness and the dark panels of her skirt would showoff the light ones. Distant Music he would call the picture if he were apainter. 

The hall-door was closed; and Aunt Kate, Aunt Julia and Mary Jane camedown the hall, still laughing. 

"Well, isn't Freddy terrible?" said Mary Jane. "He's really terrible. "

Gabriel said nothing but pointed up the stairs towards where his wifewas standing. Now that the hall-door was closed the voice and the pianocould be heard more clearly. Gabriel held up his hand for them to besilent. The song seemed to be in the old Irish tonality and the singerseemed uncertain both of his words and of his voice. The voice, made plaintive by distance and by the singer's hoarseness, faintlyilluminated the cadence of the air with words expressing grief:

O, the rain falls on my heavy locks And the dew wets my skin, My babelies cold. . . 

"O, " exclaimed Mary Jane. "It's Bartell D'Arcy singing and he wouldn'tsing all the night. O, I'll get him to sing a song before he goes. "

"O, do, Mary Jane, " said Aunt Kate. 

Mary Jane brushed past the others and ran to the staircase, but beforeshe reached it the singing stopped and the piano was closed abruptly. 

"O, what a pity!" she cried. "Is he coming down, Gretta?"

Gabriel heard his wife answer yes and saw her come down towards them. Afew steps behind her were Mr. Bartell D'Arcy and Miss O'Callaghan. 

"O, Mr. D'Arcy, " cried Mary Jane, "it's downright mean of you to breakoff like that when we were all in raptures listening to you. "

"I have been at him all the evening, " said Miss O'Callaghan, "and Mrs. Conroy, too, and he told us he had a dreadful cold and couldn't sing. "

"O, Mr. D'Arcy, " said Aunt Kate, "now that was a great fib to tell. "

"Can't you see that I'm as hoarse as a crow?" said Mr. D'Arcy roughly. 

He went into the pantry hastily and put on his overcoat. The others, taken aback by his rude speech, could find nothing to say. Aunt Katewrinkled her brows and made signs to the others to drop the subject. Mr. D'Arcy stood swathing his neck carefully and frowning. 

"It's the weather, " said Aunt Julia, after a pause. 

"Yes, everybody has colds, " said Aunt Kate readily, "everybody. "

"They say, " said Mary Jane, "we haven't had snow like it for thirtyyears; and I read this morning in the newspapers that the snow isgeneral all over Ireland. "

"I love the look of snow, " said Aunt Julia sadly. 

"So do I, " said Miss O'Callaghan. "I think Christmas is never reallyChristmas unless we have the snow on the ground. "

"But poor Mr. D'Arcy doesn't like the snow, " said Aunt Kate, smiling. 

Mr. D'Arcy came from the pantry, fully swathed and buttoned, and ina repentant tone told them the history of his cold. Everyone gave himadvice and said it was a great pity and urged him to be very careful ofhis throat in the night air. Gabriel watched his wife, who did not joinin the conversation. She was standing right under the dusty fanlight andthe flame of the gas lit up the rich bronze of her hair, which he hadseen her drying at the fire a few days before. She was in the sameattitude and seemed unaware of the talk about her. At last she turnedtowards them and Gabriel saw that there was colour on her cheeks andthat her eyes were shining. A sudden tide of joy went leaping out of hisheart. 

"Mr. D'Arcy, " she said, "what is the name of that song you weresinging?"

"It's called The Lass of Aughrim, " said Mr. D'Arcy, "but I couldn'tremember it properly. Why? Do you know it?"

"The Lass of Aughrim, " she repeated. "I couldn't think of the name. "

"It's a very nice air, " said Mary Jane. "I'm sorry you were not in voicetonight. "

"Now, Mary Jane, " said Aunt Kate, "don't annoy Mr. D'Arcy. I won't havehim annoyed. "

Seeing that all were ready to start she shepherded them to the door, where good-night was said:

"Well, good-night, Aunt Kate, and thanks for the pleasant evening. "

"Good-night, Gabriel. Good-night, Gretta!"

"Good-night, Aunt Kate, and thanks ever so much. Goodnight, Aunt Julia. "

"O, good-night, Gretta, I didn't see you. "

"Good-night, Mr. D'Arcy. Good-night, Miss O'Callaghan. "

"Good-night, Miss Morkan. "

"Good-night, again. "

"Good-night, all. Safe home. "

"Good-night. Good night. "

The morning was still dark. A dull, yellow light brooded over thehouses and the river; and the sky seemed to be descending. It was slushyunderfoot; and only streaks and patches of snow lay on the roofs, onthe parapets of the quay and on the area railings. The lamps were stillburning redly in the murky air and, across the river, the palace of theFour Courts stood out menacingly against the heavy sky. 

She was walking on before him with Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, her shoes in abrown parcel tucked under one arm and her hands holding her skirt upfrom the slush. She had no longer any grace of attitude, but Gabriel'seyes were still bright with happiness. The blood went bounding along hisveins; and the thoughts went rioting through his brain, proud, joyful, tender, valorous. 

She was walking on before him so lightly and so erect that he longed torun after her noiselessly, catch her by the shoulders and say somethingfoolish and affectionate into her ear. She seemed to him so frail thathe longed to defend her against something and then to be alone with her. Moments of their secret life together burst like stars upon his memory. A heliotrope envelope was lying beside his breakfast-cup and he wascaressing it with his hand. Birds were twittering in the ivy and thesunny web of the curtain was shimmering along the floor: he could noteat for happiness. They were standing on the crowded platform and he wasplacing a ticket inside the warm palm of her glove. He was standingwith her in the cold, looking in through a grated window at a man makingbottles in a roaring furnace. It was very cold. Her face, fragrant inthe cold air, was quite close to his; and suddenly he called out to theman at the furnace:

"Is the fire hot, sir?"

But the man could not hear with the noise of the furnace. It was just aswell. He might have answered rudely. 

A wave of yet more tender joy escaped from his heart and went coursingin warm flood along his arteries. Like the tender fire of stars momentsof their life together, that no one knew of or would ever know of, brokeupon and illumined his memory. He longed to recall to her those moments, to make her forget the years of their dull existence together andremember only their moments of ecstasy. For the years, he felt, had notquenched his soul or hers. Their children, his writing, her householdcares had not quenched all their souls' tender fire. In one letter thathe had written to her then he had said: "Why is it that words likethese seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tenderenough to be your name?"

Like distant music these words that he had written years before wereborne towards him from the past. He longed to be alone with her. Whenthe others had gone away, when he and she were in the room in the hotel, then they would be alone together. He would call her softly:

"Gretta!"

Perhaps she would not hear at once: she would be undressing. Thensomething in his voice would strike her. She would turn and look athim. . . . 

At the corner of Winetavern Street they met a cab. He was glad of itsrattling noise as it saved him from conversation. She was looking out ofthe window and seemed tired. The others spoke only a few words, pointingout some building or street. The horse galloped along wearily under themurky morning sky, dragging his old rattling box after his heels, and Gabriel was again in a cab with her, galloping to catch the boat, galloping to their honeymoon. 

As the cab drove across O'Connell Bridge Miss O'Callaghan said:

"They say you never cross O'Connell Bridge without seeing a whitehorse. "

"I see a white man this time, " said Gabriel. 

"Where?" asked Mr. Bartell D'Arcy. 

Gabriel pointed to the statue, on which lay patches of snow. Then henodded familiarly to it and waved his hand. 

"Good-night, Dan, " he said gaily. 

When the cab drew up before the hotel, Gabriel jumped out and, in spiteof Mr. Bartell D'Arcy's protest, paid the driver. He gave the man ashilling over his fare. The man saluted and said:

"A prosperous New Year to you, sir. "

"The same to you, " said Gabriel cordially. 

She leaned for a moment on his arm in getting out of the cab and whilestanding at the curbstone, bidding the others good-night. She leanedlightly on his arm, as lightly as when she had danced with him a fewhours before. He had felt proud and happy then, happy that she was his, proud of her grace and wifely carriage. But now, after the kindlingagain of so many memories, the first touch of her body, musical andstrange and perfumed, sent through him a keen pang of lust. Under coverof her silence he pressed her arm closely to his side; and, as theystood at the hotel door, he felt that they had escaped from their livesand duties, escaped from home and friends and run away together withwild and radiant hearts to a new adventure. 

An old man was dozing in a great hooded chair in the hall. He lit acandle in the office and went before them to the stairs. They followedhim in silence, their feet falling in soft thuds on the thickly carpetedstairs. She mounted the stairs behind the porter, her head bowed inthe ascent, her frail shoulders curved as with a burden, her skirt girttightly about her. He could have flung his arms about her hips and heldher still, for his arms were trembling with desire to seize her and onlythe stress of his nails against the palms of his hands held the wildimpulse of his body in check. The porter halted on the stairs to settlehis guttering candle. They halted, too, on the steps below him. In thesilence Gabriel could hear the falling of the molten wax into the trayand the thumping of his own heart against his ribs. 

The porter led them along a corridor and opened a door. Then he set hisunstable candle down on a toilet-table and asked at what hour they wereto be called in the morning. 

"Eight, " said Gabriel. 

The porter pointed to the tap of the electric-light and began a mutteredapology, but Gabriel cut him short. 

"We don't want any light. We have light enough from the street. And Isay, " he added, pointing to the candle, "you might remove that handsomearticle, like a good man. "

The porter took up his candle again, but slowly, for he was surprised bysuch a novel idea. Then he mumbled good-night and went out. Gabriel shotthe lock to. 

A ghastly light from the street lamp lay in a long shaft from one windowto the door. Gabriel threw his overcoat and hat on a couch and crossedthe room towards the window. He looked down into the street in orderthat his emotion might calm a little. Then he turned and leaned againsta chest of drawers with his back to the light. She had taken off her hatand cloak and was standing before a large swinging mirror, unhooking herwaist. Gabriel paused for a few moments, watching her, and then said:

"Gretta!"

She turned away from the mirror slowly and walked along the shaft oflight towards him. Her face looked so serious and weary that the wordswould not pass Gabriel's lips. No, it was not the moment yet. 

"You looked tired, " he said. 

"I am a little, " she answered. 

"You don't feel ill or weak?"

"No, tired: that's all. "

She went on to the window and stood there, looking out. Gabriel waitedagain and then, fearing that diffidence was about to conquer him, hesaid abruptly:

"By the way, Gretta!"

"What is it?"

"You know that poor fellow Malins?" he said quickly. 

"Yes. What about him?"

"Well, poor fellow, he's a decent sort of chap, after all, " continuedGabriel in a false voice. "He gave me back that sovereign I lent him, and I didn't expect it, really. It's a pity he wouldn't keep away fromthat Browne, because he's not a bad fellow, really. "

He was trembling now with annoyance. Why did she seem so abstracted? Hedid not know how he could begin. Was she annoyed, too, about something?If she would only turn to him or come to him of her own accord! To takeher as she was would be brutal. No, he must see some ardour in her eyesfirst. He longed to be master of her strange mood. 

"When did you lend him the pound?" she asked, after a pause. 

Gabriel strove to restrain himself from breaking out into brutallanguage about the sottish Malins and his pound. He longed to cry to herfrom his soul, to crush her body against his, to overmaster her. But hesaid:

"O, at Christmas, when he opened that little Christmas-card shop inHenry Street. "

He was in such a fever of rage and desire that he did not hear her comefrom the window. She stood before him for an instant, looking at himstrangely. Then, suddenly raising herself on tiptoe and resting herhands lightly on his shoulders, she kissed him. 

"You are a very generous person, Gabriel, " she said. 

Gabriel, trembling with delight at her sudden kiss and at the quaintnessof her phrase, put his hands on her hair and began smoothing it back, scarcely touching it with his fingers. The washing had made it fine andbrilliant. His heart was brimming over with happiness. Just when hewas wishing for it she had come to him of her own accord. Perhaps herthoughts had been running with his. Perhaps she had felt the impetuousdesire that was in him, and then the yielding mood had come upon her. Now that she had fallen to him so easily, he wondered why he had been sodiffident. 

He stood, holding her head between his hands. Then, slipping one armswiftly about her body and drawing her towards him, he said softly:

"Gretta, dear, what are you thinking about?"

She did not answer nor yield wholly to his arm. He said again, softly:

"Tell me what it is, Gretta. I think I know what is the matter. Do Iknow?"

She did not answer at once. Then she said in an outburst of tears:

"O, I am thinking about that song, The Lass of Aughrim. "

She broke loose from him and ran to the bed and, throwing her armsacross the bed-rail, hid her face. Gabriel stood stockstill for a momentin astonishment and then followed her. As he passed in the way of thecheval-glass he caught sight of himself in full length, his broad, well-filled shirt-front, the face whose expression always puzzled himwhen he saw it in a mirror, and his glimmering gilt-rimmed eyeglasses. He halted a few paces from her and said:

"What about the song? Why does that make you cry?"

She raised her head from her arms and dried her eyes with the back ofher hand like a child. A kinder note than he had intended went into hisvoice. 

"Why, Gretta?" he asked. 

"I am thinking about a person long ago who used to sing that song. "

"And who was the person long ago?" asked Gabriel, smiling. 

"It was a person I used to know in Galway when I was living with mygrandmother, " she said. 

The smile passed away from Gabriel's face. A dull anger began to gatheragain at the back of his mind and the dull fires of his lust began toglow angrily in his veins. 

"Someone you were in love with?" he asked ironically. 

"It was a young boy I used to know, " she answered, "named Michael Furey. He used to sing that song, The Lass of Aughrim. He was very delicate. "

Gabriel was silent. He did not wish her to think that he was interestedin this delicate boy. 

"I can see him so plainly, " she said, after a moment. "Such eyes as hehad: big, dark eyes! And such an expression in them--an expression!"

"O, then, you are in love with him?" said Gabriel. 

"I used to go out walking with him, " she said, "when I was in Galway. "

A thought flew across Gabriel's mind. 

"Perhaps that was why you wanted to go to Galway with that Ivors girl?"he said coldly. 

She looked at him and asked in surprise:

"What for?"

Her eyes made Gabriel feel awkward. He shrugged his shoulders and said:

"How do I know? To see him, perhaps. "

She looked away from him along the shaft of light towards the window insilence. 

"He is dead, " she said at length. "He died when he was only seventeen. Isn't it a terrible thing to die so young as that?"

"What was he?" asked Gabriel, still ironically. 

"He was in the gasworks, " she said. 

Gabriel felt humiliated by the failure of his irony and by the evocationof this figure from the dead, a boy in the gasworks. While he had beenfull of memories of their secret life together, full of tenderness andjoy and desire, she had been comparing him in her mind with another. Ashameful consciousness of his own person assailed him. He saw himselfas a ludicrous figure, acting as a pennyboy for his aunts, a nervous, well-meaning sentimentalist, orating to vulgarians and idealising hisown clownish lusts, the pitiable fatuous fellow he had caught a glimpseof in the mirror. Instinctively he turned his back more to the lightlest she might see the shame that burned upon his forehead. 

He tried to keep up his tone of cold interrogation, but his voice whenhe spoke was humble and indifferent. 

"I suppose you were in love with this Michael Furey, Gretta, " he said. 

"I was great with him at that time, " she said. 

Her voice was veiled and sad. Gabriel, feeling now how vain it would beto try to lead her whither he had purposed, caressed one of her handsand said, also sadly:

"And what did he die of so young, Gretta? Consumption, was it?"

"I think he died for me, " she answered. 

A vague terror seized Gabriel at this answer, as if, at that hour whenhe had hoped to triumph, some impalpable and vindictive being was comingagainst him, gathering forces against him in its vague world. But heshook himself free of it with an effort of reason and continued tocaress her hand. He did not question her again, for he felt that shewould tell him of herself. Her hand was warm and moist: it did notrespond to his touch, but he continued to caress it just as he hadcaressed her first letter to him that spring morning. 

"It was in the winter, " she said, "about the beginning of the winterwhen I was going to leave my grandmother's and come up here to theconvent. And he was ill at the time in his lodgings in Galway andwouldn't be let out, and his people in Oughterard were written to. He was in decline, they said, or something like that. I never knewrightly. "

She paused for a moment and sighed. 

"Poor fellow, " she said. "He was very fond of me and he was such agentle boy. We used to go out together, walking, you know, Gabriel, likethe way they do in the country. He was going to study singing only forhis health. He had a very good voice, poor Michael Furey. "

"Well; and then?" asked Gabriel. 

"And then when it came to the time for me to leave Galway and come up tothe convent he was much worse and I wouldn't be let see him so I wrotehim a letter saying I was going up to Dublin and would be back in thesummer, and hoping he would be better then. "

She paused for a moment to get her voice under control, and then wenton:

"Then the night before I left, I was in my grandmother's house in Nuns'Island, packing up, and I heard gravel thrown up against the window. The window was so wet I couldn't see, so I ran downstairs as I was andslipped out the back into the garden and there was the poor fellow atthe end of the garden, shivering. "

"And did you not tell him to go back?" asked Gabriel. 

"I implored of him to go home at once and told him he would get hisdeath in the rain. But he said he did not want to live. I can see hiseyes as well as well! He was standing at the end of the wall where therewas a tree. "

"And did he go home?" asked Gabriel. 

"Yes, he went home. And when I was only a week in the convent he diedand he was buried in Oughterard, where his people came from. O, the dayI heard that, that he was dead!"

She stopped, choking with sobs, and, overcome by emotion, flung herselfface downward on the bed, sobbing in the quilt. Gabriel held her handfor a moment longer, irresolutely, and then, shy of intruding on hergrief, let it fall gently and walked quietly to the window. 

She was fast asleep. 

Gabriel, leaning on his elbow, looked for a few moments unresentfullyon her tangled hair and half-open mouth, listening to her deep-drawnbreath. So she had had that romance in her life: a man had died for hersake. It hardly pained him now to think how poor a part he, her husband, had played in her life. He watched her while she slept, as though he andshe had never lived together as man and wife. His curious eyes restedlong upon her face and on her hair: and, as he thought of what she musthave been then, in that time of her first girlish beauty, a strange, friendly pity for her entered his soul. He did not like to say even tohimself that her face was no longer beautiful, but he knew that it wasno longer the face for which Michael Furey had braved death. 

Perhaps she had not told him all the story. His eyes moved to thechair over which she had thrown some of her clothes. A petticoat stringdangled to the floor. One boot stood upright, its limp upper fallendown: the fellow of it lay upon its side. He wondered at his riot ofemotions of an hour before. From what had it proceeded? From his aunt'ssupper, from his own foolish speech, from the wine and dancing, themerry-making when saying good-night in the hall, the pleasure of thewalk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt Julia! She, too, would soonbe a shade with the shade of Patrick Morkan and his horse. He hadcaught that haggard look upon her face for a moment when she was singingArrayed for the Bridal. Soon, perhaps, he would be sitting in that samedrawing-room, dressed in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blindswould be drawn down and Aunt Kate would be sitting beside him, cryingand blowing her nose and telling him how Julia had died. He would castabout in his mind for some words that might console her, and would findonly lame and useless ones. Yes, yes: that would happen very soon. 

The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himselfcautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife. One byone, they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that otherworld, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismallywith age. He thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in herheart for so many years that image of her lover's eyes when he had toldher that he did not wish to live. 

Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had never felt like thathimself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darknesshe imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a drippingtree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region wheredwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could notapprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity wasfading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving anddwindling. 

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begunto snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, fallingobliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out onhis journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was generalall over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark centralplain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on thehill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on thecrooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, onthe barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow fallingfaintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent oftheir last end, upon all the living and the dead.