Nursing Care Plans Books

dubliners by james joyce contents the sistersan encounter arabyeveline after the racetwo gallants the boarding housea little cloud counterpartsclay a painful caseivy day in the committee room

a mothergrace the dead the sisters there was no hope for him this time: it wasthe third stroke. night after night i had passed the house (it wasvacation time) and studied the lighted square of window: and night afternight i had found it lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly.if he was dead, i thought, i would see the reflection of candles on thedarkened blind for i knew that two candles must be set at the head ofa corpse. he had often said

to me: "i am not long for this world," andi had thought his words idle. now i knew they were true. every night asi gazed up at the window i said softly to myself the word paralysis.it had always sounded strangely in my ears, like the word gnomonin the euclid and the word simony in the catechism. but now it soundedto me like the name of some maleficent and sinful being. it filled mewith fear, and yet i longed to be nearer to it and to look upon its deadlywork. old cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking,when i came downstairs to supper. while my aunt was ladling out mystirabout he said, as if

returning to some former remark of his: "no, i wouldn't say he was exactly... butthere was something queer... there was something uncanny about him. i'lltell you my opinion...." he began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranginghis opinion in his mind. tiresome old fool! when we knew himfirst he used to be rather interesting, talking of faints and worms;but i soon grew tired of him and his endless stories about the distillery. "i have my own theory about it," he said."i think it was one of those... peculiar cases.... but it's hardto say...."

he began to puff again at his pipe withoutgiving us his theory. my uncle saw me staring and said to me: "well, so your old friend is gone, you'llbe sorry to hear." "who?" said i. "father flynn." "is he dead?" "mr. cotter here has just told us. he waspassing by the house." i knew that i was under observation so i continuedeating as if the news had not interested me. my uncle explainedto old cotter.

"the youngster and he were great friends.the old chap taught him a great deal, mind you; and they say he hada great wish for him." "god have mercy on his soul," said my auntpiously. old cotter looked at me for a while. i feltthat his little beady black eyes were examining me but i would not satisfyhim by looking up from my plate. he returned to his pipe and finallyspat rudely into the grate. "i wouldn't like children of mine," he said,"to have too much to say to a man like that." "how do you mean, mr. cotter?" asked my aunt.

"what i mean is," said old cotter, "it's badfor children. my idea is: let a young lad run about and play with younglads of his own age and not be... am i right, jack?" "that's my principle, too," said my uncle."let him learn to box his corner. that's what i'm always saying to thatrosicrucian there: take exercise. why, when i was a nipper every morningof my life i had a cold bath, winter and summer. and that's what standsto me now. education is all very fine and large.... mr. cottermight take a pick of that leg mutton," he added to my aunt.

"no, no, not for me," said old cotter. my aunt brought the dish from the safe andput it on the table. "but why do you think it's not good for children,mr. cotter?" she asked. "it's bad for children," said old cotter,"because their minds are so impressionable. when children see things likethat, you know, it has an effect...." i crammed my mouth with stirabout for feari might give utterance to my anger. tiresome old red-nosed imbecile!

it was late when i fell asleep. though i wasangry with old cotter for alluding to me as a child, i puzzled my headto extract meaning from his unfinished sentences. in the dark of my roomi imagined that i saw again the heavy grey face of the paralytic. i drewthe blankets over my head and tried to think of christmas. but the greyface still followed me. it murmured; and i understood that it desiredto confess something. i felt my soul receding into some pleasant and viciousregion; and there again i found it waiting for me. it began to confessto me in a murmuring voice and i wondered why it smiled continuallyand why the lips were so

moist with spittle. but then i rememberedthat it had died of paralysis and i felt that i too was smiling feebly asif to absolve the simoniac of his sin. the next morning after breakfast i went downto look at the little house in great britain street. it was an unassumingshop, registered under the vague name of drapery. the drapery consistedmainly of children's bootees and umbrellas; and on ordinary daysa notice used to hang in the window, saying: umbrellas re-covered. no noticewas visible now for the shutters were up. a crape bouquet wastied to the doork-nocker with

ribbon. two poor women and a telegram boywere reading the card pinned on the crape. i also approached and read: july 1st, 1895the 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 thathe was dead and i was disturbed to find myself at check. had henot been dead i would have gone into the little dark room behind theshop to find him sitting in his arm-chair by the fire, nearly smotheredin his great-coat. perhaps

my aunt would have given me a packet of hightoast for him and this present would have roused him from his stupefieddoze. it was always i who emptied the packet into his black snuff-boxfor his hands trembled too much to allow him to do this without spillinghalf the snuff about the floor. even as he raised his large tremblinghand to his nose little clouds of smoke dribbled through his fingersover the front of his coat. it may have been these constant showers ofsnuff which gave his ancient priestly garments their green faded look forthe red handkerchief, blackened, as it always was, with the snuff-stainsof a week, with which

he tried to brush away the fallen grains,was quite inefficacious. i wished to go in and look at him but i hadnot the courage to knock. i walked away slowly along the sunny side ofthe street, reading all the theatrical advertisements in the shopwindowsas i went. i found it strange that neither i nor the day seemedin a mourning mood and i felt even annoyed at discovering in myself a sensationof freedom as if i had been freed from something by his death. iwondered at this for, as my uncle had said the night before, he had taughtme a great deal. he had studied in the irish college in rome and hehad taught me to pronounce

latin properly. he had told me stories aboutthe catacombs and about napoleon bonaparte, and he had explained tome the meaning of the different ceremonies of the mass and of thedifferent vestments worn by the priest. sometimes he had amused himselfby putting difficult questions to me, asking me what one shoulddo in certain circumstances or whether such and such sins were mortalor venial or only imperfections. his questions showed me howcomplex and mysterious were certain institutions of the church which ihad always regarded as the simplest acts. the duties of the priesttowards the eucharist and

towards the secrecy of the confessional seemedso grave to me that i wondered how anybody had ever found in himselfthe courage to undertake them; and i was not surprised when he toldme that the fathers of the church had written books as thick as the postoffice directory and as closely printed as the law notices in thenewspaper, elucidating all these intricate questions. often when i thoughtof this i could make no answer or only a very foolish and haltingone upon which he used to smile and nod his head twice or thrice.sometimes he used to put me through the responses of the mass which hehad made me learn by heart;

and, as i pattered, he used to smile pensivelyand nod his head, now and then pushing huge pinches of snuff up eachnostril alternately. when he smiled he used to uncover his big discolouredteeth and let his tongue lie upon his lower lip--a habit which hadmade me feel uneasy in the beginning of our acquaintance before i knewhim well. as i walked along in the sun i rememberedold cotter's words and tried to remember what had happened afterwards inthe dream. i remembered that i had noticed long velvet curtains anda swinging lamp of antique fashion. i felt that i had been very far away,in some land where the

customs were strange--in persia, i thought....but i could not remember the end of the dream. in the evening my aunt took me with her tovisit the house of mourning. it was after sunset; but the window-panesof the houses that looked to the west reflected the tawny gold of agreat bank of clouds. nannie received us in the hall; and, as it wouldhave been unseemly to have shouted at her, my aunt shook hands with herfor all. the old woman pointed upwards interrogatively and, on myaunt's nodding, proceeded to toil up the narrow staircase before us, herbowed head being scarcely

above the level of the banister-rail. at thefirst landing she stopped and beckoned us forward encouragingly towardsthe open door of the dead-room. my aunt went in and the old woman,seeing that i hesitated to enter, began to beckon to me again repeatedlywith her hand. i went in on tiptoe. the room through thelace end of the blind was suffused with dusky golden light amid whichthe candles looked like pale thin flames. he had been coffined. nanniegave the lead and we three knelt down at the foot of the bed. i pretendedto pray but i could not gather my thoughts because the old woman'smutterings distracted me. i

noticed how clumsily her skirt was hookedat the back and how the heels of her cloth boots were trodden down all toone side. the fancy came to me that the old priest was smiling as he laythere in his coffin. but no. when we rose and went up to the headof the bed i saw that he was not smiling. there he lay, solemn andcopious, vested as for the altar, his large hands loosely retaining achalice. his face was very truculent, grey and massive, with black cavernousnostrils and circled by a scanty white fur. there was a heavy odourin the room--the flowers. we blessed ourselves and came away. in thelittle room downstairs we

found eliza seated in his arm-chair in state.i groped my way towards my usual chair in the corner while nannie wentto the sideboard and brought out a decanter of sherry and some wine-glasses.she set these on the table and invited us to take a little glassof wine. then, at her sister's bidding, she filled out the sherryinto the glasses and passed them to us. she pressed me to take some creamcrackers also but i declined because i thought i would make toomuch noise eating them. she seemed to be somewhat disappointed at my refusaland went over quietly to the sofa where she sat down behind hersister. no one spoke: we all

gazed at the empty fireplace. my aunt waited until eliza sighed and thensaid: "ah, well, he's gone to a better world." eliza sighed again and bowed her head in assent.my aunt fingered the stem 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 the breath went out of him. he had a beautifuldeath, god be praised." "and everything...?"

"father o'rourke was in with him a tuesdayand anointed him and prepared him 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 himsaid. she said he just looked as if he was asleep, he looked thatpeaceful and resigned. no one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse." "yes, indeed," said my aunt.

she sipped a little more from her glass andsaid: "well, miss flynn, at any rate it must bea great comfort for you to know that you did all you could for him. youwere both very kind to him, i must say." eliza smoothed her dress over her knees. "ah, poor james!" she said. "god knows wedone all we could, as poor as we are--we wouldn't see him want anythingwhile he was in it." nannie had leaned her head against the sofa-pillowand seemed about to fall asleep.

"there's poor nannie," said eliza, lookingat her, "she's wore out. all the work we had, she and me, getting in thewoman to wash him and then laying him out and then the coffin and thenarranging about the mass in the chapel. only for father o'rourke i don'tknow what we'd have done at all. it was him brought us all them flowers andthem two candlesticks out of the chapel and wrote out the notice for thefreeman's general and took charge of all the papers for the cemeteryand 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 is said and done, no friends that a body cantrust." "indeed, that's true," said my aunt. "andi'm sure now that he's gone to his eternal reward he won't forget you andall your kindness to him." "ah, poor james!" said eliza. "he was no greattrouble to us. you wouldn't hear him in the house any more thannow. still, i know he's gone and all to that...." "it's when it's all over that you'll misshim," said my aunt. "i know that," said eliza. "i won't be bringinghim in his cup of

beef-tea any more, nor you, ma'am, sendinghim his snuff. ah, poor james!" she stopped, as if she were communing withthe past and then said shrewdly: "mind you, i noticed there was something queercoming over him latterly. whenever i'd bring in his soup to him therei'd find him with his breviary fallen to the floor, lying back inthe chair and his mouth open." she laid a finger against her nose and frowned:then she continued: "but still and all he kept on saying thatbefore the summer was over

he'd go out for a drive one fine day justto see the old house again where we were all born down in irishtown andtake me and nannie with him. if we could only get one of them new-fangledcarriages that makes no noise that father o'rourke told him about--themwith the rheumatic wheels--for the day cheap--he said, at johnnyrush's over the way there and drive out the three of us together ofa sunday evening. he had his mind set on that.... poor james!" "the lord have mercy on his soul!" said myaunt. eliza took out her handkerchief and wipedher eyes with it. then she put

it back again in her pocket and gazed intothe empty grate for some time without speaking. "he was too scrupulous always," she said."the duties of the priesthood was too much for him. and then his life was,you might say, crossed." "yes," said my aunt. "he was a disappointedman. you could see that." a silence took possession of the little roomand, under cover of it, i approached the table and tasted my sherryand then returned quietly to my chair in the comer. eliza seemed to havefallen into a deep revery. we waited respectfully for her to break thesilence: and after a long

pause she said slowly: "it was that chalice he broke.... that wasthe beginning of it. of course, they say it was all right, that itcontained nothing, i mean. but still.... they say it was the boy's fault.but poor james was so nervous, god be merciful to him!" "and was that it?" said my aunt. "i heardsomething...." eliza nodded. "that affected his mind," she said. "afterthat he began to mope by himself, talking to no one and wandering aboutby himself. so one night

he was wanted for to go on a call and theycouldn't find him anywhere. they looked high up and low down; and stillthey couldn't see a sight of him anywhere. so then the clerk suggestedto try the chapel. so then they got the keys and opened the chapeland the clerk and father o'rourke and another priest that was therebrought in a light for to look for him.... and what do you think butthere he was, sitting up by himself in the dark in his confession-box,wide-awake and laughing-like softly to himself?" she stopped suddenly as if to listen. i toolistened; but there was no

sound in the house: and i knew that the oldpriest was lying still in his coffin as we had seen him, solemn andtruculent in death, an idle chalice on his breast. eliza resumed: "wide-awake and laughing-like to himself....so then, of course, when they saw that, that made them think that therewas something gone wrong with him...." an encounter it was joe dillon who introduced the wildwest to us. he had a little

library made up of old numbers of the unionjack, pluck and the halfpenny marvel. every evening after schoolwe met in his back garden and arranged indian battles. he and his fatyoung brother leo, the idler, held the loft of the stable while wetried 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 boutsended with joe dillon's war dance of victory. his parents went toeight-o'clock mass every morning in gardiner street and the peacefulodour of mrs. dillon was prevalent in the hall of the house. but heplayed too fiercely for us

who were younger and more timid. he lookedlike some kind of an indian when he capered round the garden, an old tea-cosyon his head, beating a tin with his fist and yelling: "ya! yaka, yaka, yaka!" everyone was incredulous when it was reportedthat he had a vocation for the priesthood. nevertheless it was true. a spirit of unruliness diffused itself amongus and, under its influence, differences of culture and constitutionwere waived. we banded ourselves together, some boldly, somein jest and some almost in

fear: and of the number of these latter, thereluctant indians who were afraid to seem studious or lacking inrobustness, i was one. the adventures related in the literature of thewild west were remote from my nature but, at least, they opened doorsof escape. i liked better some american detective stories which weretraversed from time to time by unkempt fierce and beautiful girls. thoughthere was nothing wrong in these stories and though their intentionwas sometimes literary they were circulated secretly at school. oneday when father butler was hearing the four pages of roman history clumsyleo dillon was discovered

with a copy of the halfpenny marvel. "this page or this page? this page now, dillon,up! 'hardly had the day'... go on! what day? 'hardly had the daydawned'... have you studied it? what have you there in your pocket?" everyone's heart palpitated as leo dillonhanded up the paper and everyone assumed an innocent face. fatherbutler turned over the pages, frowning. "what is this rubbish?" he said. "the apachechief! is this what you read instead of studying your roman history?let me not find any more

of this wretched stuff in this college. theman who wrote it, i suppose, was some wretched fellow who writes thesethings for a drink. i'm surprised at boys like you, educated, readingsuch stuff. i could understand it if you were... national schoolboys. now, dillon, i advise you strongly, get at your work or..." this rebuke during the sober hours of schoolpaled much of the glory of the wild west for me and the confused puffyface of leo dillon awakened one of my consciences. but when the restraininginfluence of the school was at a distance i began to hunger againfor wild sensations, for the

escape which those chronicles of disorderalone seemed to offer me. the mimic warfare of the evening became at lastas wearisome to me as the routine of school in the morning because iwanted real adventures to happen to myself. but real adventures, i reflected,do not happen to people who remain at home: they must be soughtabroad. the summer holidays were near at hand wheni made up my mind to break out of the weariness of school-life for oneday at least. with leo dillon and a boy named mahony i planned a day's miching.each of us saved up sixpence. we were to meet at ten in the morningon the canal bridge.

mahony's big sister was to write an excusefor him and leo dillon was to tell his brother to say he was sick. we arrangedto go along the wharf road until we came to the ships, then to crossin the ferryboat and walk out to see the pigeon house. leo dillon wasafraid we might meet father butler or someone out of the college; butmahony asked, very sensibly, what would father butler be doing out at thepigeon house. we were reassured: and i brought the first stage ofthe plot to an end by collecting sixpence from the other two, atthe same time showing them my own sixpence. when we were making the lastarrangements on the eve we

were all vaguely excited. we shook hands,laughing, and mahony said: "till tomorrow, mates!" that night i slept badly. in the morning iwas first-comer to the bridge as i lived nearest. i hid my books in thelong grass near the ashpit at the end of the garden where nobody ever cameand hurried along the canal bank. it was a mild sunny morning in the firstweek of june. i sat up on the coping of the bridge admiring my frailcanvas shoes which i had diligently pipeclayed overnight and watchingthe docile horses pulling a tramload of business people up the hill.all the branches of the tall

trees which lined the mall were gay with littlelight green leaves and the sunlight slanted through them on to thewater. the granite stone of the bridge was beginning to be warm and ibegan to pat it with my hands in time to an air in my head. i was very happy. when i had been sitting there for five orten minutes i saw mahony's grey suit approaching. he came up the hill,smiling, and clambered up beside me on the bridge. while we werewaiting he brought out the catapult which bulged from his inner pocketand explained some improvements which he had made in it. i askedhim why he had brought it

and he told me he had brought it to have somegas with the birds. mahony used slang freely, and spoke of father butleras old bunser. we waited on for a quarter of an hour more but stillthere was no sign of leo dillon. 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 muchthe better for us--a bob and a tanner instead of a bob." we walked along the north strand road tillwe came to the vitriol works

and then turned to the right along the wharfroad. mahony began to play the indian as soon as we were out of publicsight. he chased a crowd of ragged girls, brandishing his unloadedcatapult and, when two ragged boys began, out of chivalry, to fling stonesat us, he proposed that we should charge them. i objected that the boyswere too small and so we walked on, the ragged troop screaming afterus: "swaddlers! swaddlers!" thinking that we were protestantsbecause mahony, who was dark-complexioned, wore the silver badge ofa cricket club in his cap. when we came to the smoothing iron we arrangeda siege; but it was a

failure because you must have at least three.we revenged ourselves on leo dillon by saying what a funk he was andguessing how many he would get at three o'clock from mr. ryan. we came then near the river. we spent a longtime walking about the noisy streets flanked by high stone walls,watching the working of cranes and engines and often being shoutedat for our immobility by the drivers of groaning carts. it was noon whenwe reached the quays and, as all the labourers seemed to be eating theirlunches, we bought two big currant buns and sat down to eat them on somemetal piping beside the

river. we pleased ourselves with the spectacleof dublin's commerce--the barges signalled from far away by their curlsof woolly smoke, the brown fishing fleet beyond ringsend, the big whitesailing-vessel which was being discharged on the opposite quay. mahonysaid it would be right skit to run away to sea on one of those bigships and even i, looking at the high masts, saw, or imagined, the geographywhich had been scantily dosed to me at school gradually taking substanceunder my eyes. school and home seemed to recede from us and theirinfluences upon us seemed to wane.

we crossed the liffey in the ferryboat, payingour toll to be transported in the company of two labourersand a little jew with a bag. we were serious to the point of solemnity,but once during the short voyage our eyes met and we laughed. when welanded we watched the discharging of the graceful threemaster whichwe had observed from the other quay. some bystander said that she wasa norwegian vessel. i went to the stern and tried to decipher the legendupon it but, failing to do so, i came back and examined the foreign sailorsto see had any of them green eyes for i had some confused notion....the sailors' eyes were

blue and grey and even black. the only sailorwhose eyes could have been called green was a tall man who amused thecrowd on the quay by calling out cheerfully every time the planks fell: "all right! all right!" when we were tired of this sight we wanderedslowly into ringsend. the day had grown sultry, and in the windows ofthe grocers' shops musty biscuits lay bleaching. we bought some biscuitsand chocolate which we ate sedulously as we wandered through thesqualid streets where the families of the fishermen live. we could findno dairy and so we went

into a huckster's shop and bought a bottleof raspberry lemonade each. refreshed by this, mahony chased a cat downa lane, but the cat escaped into a wide field. we both felt rather tiredand when we reached the field we made at once for a sloping bank overthe ridge of which we could see the dodder. it was too late and we were too tired to carryout our project of visiting the pigeon house. we had to be homebefore four o'clock lest our adventure should be discovered. mahonylooked regretfully at his catapult and i had to suggest going home bytrain before he regained

any cheerfulness. the sun went in behind someclouds and left us to our jaded thoughts and the crumbs of our provisions. there was nobody but ourselves in the field.when we had lain on the bank for some time without speaking i sawa man approaching from the far end of the field. i watched him lazily asi chewed one of those green stems on which girls tell fortunes. he camealong by the bank slowly. he walked with one hand upon his hip and in theother hand he held a stick with which he tapped the turf lightly. hewas shabbily dressed in a suit of greenish-black and wore what we used tocall a jerry hat with a high

crown. he seemed to be fairly old for hismoustache was ashen-grey. when he passed at our feet he glanced up at usquickly and then continued his way. we followed him with our eyes and sawthat when he had gone on for perhaps fifty paces he turned about and beganto retrace his steps. he walked towards us very slowly, always tappingthe ground with his stick, so slowly that i thought he was looking forsomething in the grass. he stopped when he came level with us andbade us good-day. we answered him and he sat down beside us on the slopeslowly and with great care. he began to talk of the weather, saying thatit would be a very hot

summer and adding that the seasons had changedgreatly since he was a boy--a long time ago. he said that the happiesttime of one's life was undoubtedly one's school-boy days and thathe would give anything to be young again. while he expressed these sentimentswhich bored us a little we kept silent. then he began to talk of schooland of books. he asked us whether we had read the poetry of thomasmoore or the works of sir walter scott and lord lytton. i pretendedthat i had read every book he mentioned so that in the end he said: "ah, i can see you are a bookworm like myself.now," he added, pointing

to mahony who was regarding us with open eyes,"he is different; he goes in for games." he said he had all sir walter scott's worksand all lord lytton's works at home and never tired of reading them. "ofcourse," he said, "there were some of lord lytton's works which boyscouldn't read." mahony asked why couldn't boys read them--a question whichagitated and pained me because i was afraid the man would think iwas as stupid as mahony. the man, however, only smiled. i saw that he hadgreat gaps in his mouth between his yellow teeth. then he asked uswhich of us had the most

sweethearts. mahony mentioned lightly thathe had three totties. the man asked me how many had i. i answered that ihad none. he did not believe me and said he was sure i must have one. iwas silent. "tell us," said mahony pertly to the man,"how many have you yourself?" the man smiled as before and said that whenhe was our age he had lots of sweethearts. "every boy," he said, "has a little sweetheart." his attitude on this point struck me as strangelyliberal in a man of his age. in my heart i thought that whathe said about boys and

sweethearts was reasonable. but i dislikedthe words in his mouth and i wondered why he shivered once or twice asif he feared something or felt a sudden chill. as he proceeded i noticedthat his accent was good. he began to speak to us about girls, saying whatnice soft hair they had and how soft their hands were and how allgirls were not so good as they seemed to be if one only knew. there was nothinghe liked, he said, so much as looking at a nice young girl, at hernice white hands and her beautiful soft hair. he gave me the impressionthat he was repeating something which he had learned by heart orthat, magnetised by some

words of his own speech, his mind was slowlycircling round and round in the same orbit. at times he spoke as if hewere simply alluding to some fact that everybody knew, and at times helowered his voice and spoke mysteriously as if he were telling us somethingsecret which he did not wish others to overhear. he repeated his phrasesover and over again, varying them and surrounding them with hismonotonous voice. i continued to gaze towards the foot of the slope, listeningto him. after a long while his monologue paused. hestood up slowly, saying that he had to leave us for a minute or so,a few minutes, and, without

changing the direction of my gaze, i saw himwalking slowly away from us towards the near end of the field. we remainedsilent when he had gone. after a silence of a few minutes i heard mahonyexclaim: "i say! look what he's doing!" as i neither answered nor raised my eyes mahonyexclaimed 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'll be smith." we said nothing further to each other. i wasstill considering whether

i would go away or not when the man came backand sat down beside us again. hardly had he sat down when mahony,catching sight of the cat which had escaped him, sprang up and pursuedher across the field. the man and i watched the chase. the cat escapedonce more and mahony began to throw stones at the wall she had escaladed.desisting from this, he began to wander about the far end of the field,aimlessly. after an interval the man spoke to me. hesaid that my friend was a very rough boy and asked did he get whipped oftenat school. i was going to reply indignantly that we were not nationalschool boys to be whipped,

as he called it; but i remained silent. hebegan to speak on the subject of chastising boys. his mind, as if magnetisedagain by his speech, seemed to circle slowly round and round itsnew centre. he said that when boys were that kind they ought to bewhipped and well whipped. when a boy was rough and unruly there was nothingwould do him any good but a good sound whipping. a slap on the hand ora box on the ear was no good: what he wanted was to get a nice warm whipping.i was surprised at this sentiment and involuntarily glanced up athis face. as i did so i met the gaze of a pair of bottle-green eyes peeringat me from under a

twitching forehead. i turned my eyes awayagain. the man continued his monologue. he seemedto have forgotten his recent liberalism. he said that if ever he founda boy talking to girls or having a girl for a sweetheart he would whiphim and whip him; and that would teach him not to be talking to girls.and if a boy had a girl for a sweetheart and told lies about it thenhe would give him such a whipping as no boy ever got in this world.he said that there was nothing in this world he would like so wellas that. he described to me how he would whip such a boy as if he wereunfolding some elaborate

mystery. he would love that, he said, betterthan anything in this world; and his voice, as he led me monotonouslythrough the mystery, grew almost affectionate and seemed to pleadwith me that i should understand him. i waited till his monologue paused again.then i stood up abruptly. lest i should betray my agitation i delayed a fewmoments pretending to fix my shoe properly and then, saying that i wasobliged to go, i bade him good-day. i went up the slope calmly but myheart was beating quickly with fear that he would seize me by the ankles.when i reached the top

of the slope i turned round and, without lookingat him, called loudly across the field: "murphy!" my voice had an accent of forced bravery init and i was ashamed of my paltry stratagem. i had to call the name againbefore mahony saw me and hallooed in answer. how my heart beatas he came running across the field to me! he ran as if to bring me aid.and i was penitent; for in my heart i had always despised him a little. araby

north richmond street, being blind, was aquiet street except at the hour when the christian brothers' school set theboys free. an uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end,detached from its neighbours in a square ground the other housesof the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazedat one another with brown imperturbable faces. the former tenant of our house, a priest,had died in the back drawing-room. air, musty from having beenlong enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchenwas littered with old

useless papers. among these i found a fewpaper-covered books, the pages of which were curled and damp: the abbot,by walter scott, the devout communicant and the memoirs of vidocq. i likedthe last best because its leaves were yellow. the wild garden behindthe house contained a central apple-tree and a few straggling bushesunder one of which i found the late tenant's rusty bicycle-pump.he had been a very charitable priest; in his will he had leftall his money to institutions and the furniture of his house to his sister. when the short days of winter came dusk fellbefore we had well eaten

our dinners. when we met in the street thehouses had grown sombre. the space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changingviolet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeblelanterns. the cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed.our shouts echoed in the silent street. the career of our play broughtus through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses where we ran the gauntletof the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of thedark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the darkodorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse orshook music from the buckled

harness. when we returned to the street lightfrom the kitchen windows had filled the areas. if my uncle was seenturning the corner we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely housed.or if mangan's sister came out on the doorstep to call her brotherin to his tea we watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street.we waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, ifshe remained, we left our shadow and walked up to mangan's steps resignedly.she was waiting for us, her figure defined by the light fromthe half-opened door. her brother always teased her before he obeyedand i stood by the railings

looking at her. her dress swung as she movedher body and the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side. every morning i lay on the floor in the frontparlour watching her door. the blind was pulled down to within an inchof the sash so that i could not be seen. when she came out on the doorstepmy heart leaped. i ran to the hall, seized my books and followedher. i kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near thepoint at which our ways diverged, i quickened my pace and passed her.this happened morning after morning. i had never spoken to her,except for a few casual words,

and yet her name was like a summons to allmy foolish blood. her image accompanied me even in places themost hostile to romance. on saturday evenings when my aunt went marketingi had to go to carry some of the parcels. we walked through theflaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amidthe curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood onguard by the barrels of pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers,who sang a come-all-you about o'donovan rossa, or a ballad about thetroubles in our native land. these noises converged in a single sensationof life for me: i

imagined that i bore my chalice safely througha throng of foes. her name sprang to my lips at moments in strangeprayers and praises which i myself did not understand. my eyes were oftenfull of tears (i could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heartseemed to pour itself out into my bosom. i thought little of the future.i did not know whether i would ever speak to her or not or, if i spoketo her, how i could tell her of my confused adoration. but my bodywas like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running uponthe wires. one evening i went into the back drawing-roomin which the priest had

died. it was a dark rainy evening and therewas no sound in the house. through one of the broken panes i heard therain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playingin the sodden beds. some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed belowme. i was thankful that i could see so little. all my senses seemedto desire to veil themselves and, feeling that i was about to slip fromthem, i pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring:"o love! o love!" many times. at last she spoke to me. when she addressedthe first words to me i was

so confused that i did not know what to answer.she asked me was i going to araby. i forgot whether i answered yesor no. it would be a splendid bazaar, she said;s she would love to go. "and why can't you?" i asked. while she spoke she turned a silver braceletround and round her wrist. she could not go, she said, because therewould be a retreat that week in her convent. her brother and two otherboys were fighting for their caps and i was alone at the railings. sheheld one of the spikes, bowing her head towards me. the light from the lampopposite our door caught

the white curve of her neck, lit up her hairthat rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing.it fell over one side of her dress and caught the white border of a petticoat,just visible as she stood 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 wakingand sleeping thoughts after that evening! i wished to annihilatethe tedious intervening days. i chafed against the work of school. at nightin my bedroom and by day

in the classroom her image came between meand the page i strove to read. the syllables of the word araby werecalled to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and castan eastern enchantment over me. i asked for leave to go to the bazaaron saturday night. my aunt was surprised and hoped it was not some freemasonaffair. i answered few questions in class. i watched my master'sface pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped i was not beginning toidle. i could not call my wandering thoughts together. i had hardlyany patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood betweenme and my desire, seemed

to me child's play, ugly monotonous child'splay. on saturday morning i reminded my uncle thati wished to go to the bazaar in the evening. he was fussing at thehallstand, looking for the hat-brush, and answered me curtly: "yes, boy, i know." as he was in the hall i could not go intothe front parlour and lie at the window. i left the house in bad humourand walked slowly towards the school. the air was pitilessly raw and alreadymy heart misgave me. when i came home to dinner my uncle had notyet been home. still it was

early. i sat staring at the clock for sometime and, when its ticking began to irritate me, i left the room. i mountedthe staircase and gained the upper part of the house. the highcold empty gloomy rooms liberated me and i went from room to roomsinging. from the front window i saw my companions playing below in the street.their cries reached me weakened and indistinct and, leaning my foreheadagainst the cool glass, i looked over at the dark house where shelived. i may have stood there for an hour, seeing nothing but thebrown-clad figure cast by my imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplightat the curved neck, at

the hand upon the railings and at the borderbelow the dress. when i came downstairs again i found mrs.mercer sitting at the fire. she was an old garrulous woman, a pawnbroker'swidow, who collected used stamps for some pious purpose. i hadto endure the gossip of the tea-table. the meal was prolonged beyond anhour and still my uncle did not come. mrs. mercer stood up to go: shewas sorry she couldn't wait any longer, but it was after eight o'clockand she did not like to be out late as the night air was bad for her.when she had gone i began to walk up and down the room, clenching my fists.my aunt said:

"i'm afraid you may put off your bazaar forthis night of our lord." at nine o'clock i heard my uncle's latchkeyin the halldoor. i heard him talking to himself and heard the hallstandrocking when it had received the weight of his overcoat. i could interpretthese signs. when he was midway through his dinner i asked him to giveme the money to go to the bazaar. he had forgotten. "the people are in bed and after their firstsleep now," he said. i did not smile. my aunt said to him energetically: "can't you give him the money and let himgo? you've kept him late

enough as it is." my uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten.he said he believed in the old saying: "all work and no play makesjack a dull boy." he asked me where i was going and, when i had toldhim a second time he asked me did i know the arab's farewell to his steed.when i left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of thepiece to my aunt. i held a florin tightly in my hand as i strodedown buckingham street towards the station. the sight of the streetsthronged with buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the purposeof my journey. i took my

seat in a third-class carriage of a desertedtrain. after an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly.it crept onward among ruinous houses and over the twinkling river.at westland row station a crowd of people pressed to the carriage doors;but the porters moved them back, saying that it was a special trainfor the bazaar. i remained alone in the bare carriage. in a few minutesthe train drew up beside an improvised wooden platform. i passed out onto the road and saw by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutesto ten. in front of me was a large building which displayed the magicalname.

i could not find any sixpenny entrance and,fearing that the bazaar would be closed, i passed in quickly througha turnstile, handing a shilling to a weary-looking man. i found myselfin a big hall girdled at half its height by a gallery. nearly all thestalls were closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness.i recognised a silence like that which pervades a church after a service.i walked into the centre of the bazaar timidly. a few people were gatheredabout the stalls which were still open. before a curtain, over whichthe words cafe chantant were written in coloured lamps, two men werecounting money on a salver.

i listened to the fall of the coins. remembering with difficulty why i had comei went over to one of the stalls and examined porcelain vases and floweredtea-sets. at the door of the stall a young lady was talkingand laughing with two young gentlemen. i remarked their english accentsand listened vaguely to their 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 andasked me did i wish to buy anything. the tone of her voice was not encouraging;she seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense of duty. i lookedhumbly at the great jars that stood like eastern guards at either sideof the dark entrance to the stall and murmured: "no, thank you."

the young lady changed the position of oneof the vases and went back to the two young men. they began to talk of thesame subject. once or twice the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder. i lingered before her stall, though i knewmy stay was useless, to make my interest in her wares seem the more real.then i turned away slowly and walked down the middle of the bazaar.i allowed the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my pocket. iheard a voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out.the upper part of the hall was now completely dark.

gazing up into the darkness i saw myself asa creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned withanguish and anger. eveline she sat at the window watching the eveninginvade the avenue. her head was leaned against the window curtains andin her nostrils was the odour of dusty cretonne. she was tired. few people passed. the man out of the lasthouse passed on his way home; she heard his footsteps clacking alongthe concrete pavement and afterwards crunching on the cinder path beforethe new red houses. one

time there used to be a field there in whichthey used to play every evening with other people's children. thena man from belfast bought the field and built houses in it--not liketheir little brown houses but bright brick houses with shining roofs. thechildren of the avenue used to play together in that field--the devines,the waters, the dunns, little keogh the cripple, she and her brothersand sisters. ernest, however, never played: he was too grown up.her father used often to hunt them in out of the field with his blackthornstick; but usually little keogh used to keep nix and call outwhen he saw her father

coming. still they seemed to have been ratherhappy then. her father was not so bad then; and besides, her mother wasalive. that was a long time ago; she and her brothers and sisters wereall grown up; her mother was dead. tizzie dunn was dead, too, and thewaters had gone back to england. everything changes. now she was goingto go away like the others, to leave her home. home! she looked round the room, reviewingall its familiar objects which she had dusted once a week for so manyyears, wondering where on earth all the dust came from. perhaps shewould never see again those

familiar objects from which she had neverdreamed of being divided. and yet during all those years she had neverfound out the name of the priest whose yellowing photograph hung onthe wall above the broken harmonium beside the coloured print of thepromises made to blessed margaret mary alacoque. he had been a schoolfriend of her father. whenever he showed the photograph to a visitorher father used to pass it with a casual word: "he is in melbourne now." she had consented to go away, to leave herhome. was that wise? she

tried to weigh each side of the question.in her home anyway she had shelter and food; she had those whom she hadknown all her life about her. of course she had to work hard, bothin the house and at business. what would they say of her in the stores whenthey found out that she had run away with a fellow? say she was afool, perhaps; and her place would be filled up by advertisement. missgavan would be glad. she had always had an edge on her, especiallywhenever there were people listening. "miss hill, don't you see these ladies arewaiting?"

"look lively, miss hill, please." she would not cry many tears at leaving thestores. but in her new home, in a distant unknowncountry, it would not be like that. then she would be married--she, eveline.people would treat her with respect then. she would not be treatedas her mother had been. even now, though she was over nineteen, she sometimesfelt herself in danger of her father's violence. she knew it wasthat that had given her the palpitations. when they were growing up hehad never gone for her like he used to go for harry and ernest, becauseshe was a girl; but latterly

he had begun to threaten her and say whathe would do to her only for her dead mother's sake. and now she had nobodyto protect her. ernest was dead and harry, who was in the church decoratingbusiness, was nearly always down somewhere in the country. besides,the invariable squabble for money on saturday nights had begun toweary her unspeakably. she always gave her entire wages--seven shillings--andharry always sent up what he could but the trouble was to get anymoney from her father. he said she used to squander the money, thatshe had no head, that he wasn't going to give her his hard-earnedmoney to throw about the

streets, and much more, for he was usuallyfairly bad of a saturday night. in the end he would give her the money andask her had she any intention of buying sunday's dinner. then she had torush out as quickly as she could and do her marketing, holding her blackleather purse tightly in her hand as she elbowed her way through thecrowds and returning home late under her load of provisions. she hadhard work to keep the house together and to see that the two young childrenwho had been left to her charge went to school regularly and got theirmeals regularly. it was hard work--a hard life--but now that she wasabout to leave it she did

not find it a wholly undesirable life. she was about to explore another life withfrank. frank was very kind, manly, open-hearted. she was to go away withhim by the night-boat to be his wife and to live with him in buenosayres where he had a home waiting for her. how well she remembered thefirst time she had seen him; he was lodging in a house on the mainroad where she used to visit. it seemed a few weeks ago. he was standingat the gate, his peaked cap pushed back on his head and his hair tumbledforward over a face of bronze. then they had come to know each other.he used to meet her

outside the stores every evening and see herhome. he took her to see the bohemian girl and she felt elated as shesat in an unaccustomed part of the theatre with him. he was awfully fondof music and sang a little. people knew that they were courting and, whenhe sang about the lass that loves a sailor, she always felt pleasantlyconfused. he used to call her poppens out of fun. first of allit had been an excitement for her to have a fellow and then she had begunto like him. he had tales of distant countries. he had started as a deckboy at a pound a month on a ship of the allan line going out to canada.he told her the names of

the ships he had been on and the names ofthe different services. he had sailed through the straits of magellan andhe told her stories of the terrible patagonians. he had fallen on hisfeet in buenos ayres, he said, and had come over to the old countryjust for a holiday. of course, her father had found out the affairand had forbidden her to have anything to say to him. "i know these sailor chaps," he said. one day he had quarrelled with frank and afterthat she had to meet her lover secretly.

the evening deepened in the avenue. the whiteof two letters in her lap grew indistinct. one was to harry; the otherwas to her father. ernest had been her favourite but she liked harrytoo. her father was becoming old lately, she noticed; he would miss her.sometimes he could be very nice. not long before, when she had been laidup for a day, he had read her out a ghost story and made toast for herat the fire. another day, when their mother was alive, they had allgone for a picnic to the hill of howth. she remembered her father puttingon her mother's bonnet to make the children laugh.

her time was running out but she continuedto sit by the window, leaning her head against the window curtain,inhaling the odour of dusty cretonne. down far in the avenue she couldhear a street organ playing. she knew the air. strange that it should comethat very night to remind her of the promise to her mother, her promiseto keep the home together as long as she could. she remembered the lastnight of her mother's illness; she was again in the close dark roomat the other side of the hall and outside she heard a melancholy airof italy. the organ-player had been ordered to go away and given sixpence.she remembered her

father strutting back into the sickroom saying: "damned italians! coming over here!" as she mused the pitiful vision of her mother'slife laid its spell on the very quick of her being--that life ofcommonplace sacrifices closing in final craziness. she trembled as she heardagain her mother's voice saying 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 she

wanted to live. why should she be unhappy?she had a right to happiness. frank would take her in his arms, fold herin his arms. he would save her. she stood among the swaying crowd in the stationat the north wall. he held her hand and she knew that he was speakingto her, saying something about the passage over and over again. thestation was full of soldiers with brown baggages. through the wide doorsof the sheds she caught a glimpse of the black mass of the boat, lyingin beside the quay wall, with illumined portholes. she answered nothing.she felt her cheek pale

and cold and, out of a maze of distress, sheprayed to god to direct her, to show her what was her duty. the boatblew a long mournful whistle into the mist. if she went, tomorrowshe would be on the sea with frank, steaming towards buenos ayres.their passage had been booked. could she still draw back after allhe had done for her? her distress awoke a nausea in her body and shekept moving her lips in silent fervent prayer. a bell clanged upon her heart. she felt himseize her hand: "come!"

all the seas of the world tumbled about herheart. he was drawing her into them: he would drown her. she grippedwith both hands at the iron railing. no! no! no! it was impossible. her hands clutchedthe iron in frenzy. amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish! "eveline! evvy!" he rushed beyond the barrier and called toher to follow. he was shouted at to go on but he still called to her. sheset her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. her eyesgave him no sign of love or

farewell or recognition. after the race the cars came scudding in towards dublin,running evenly like pellets in the groove of the naas road. at the crestof the hill at inchicore sightseers had gathered in clumps to watchthe cars careering homeward and through this channel of poverty and inactionthe continent sped its wealth and industry. now and again the clumpsof people raised the cheer of the gratefully oppressed. their sympathy,however, was for the blue cars--the cars of their friends, the french.

the french, moreover, were virtual victors.their team had finished solidly; they had been placed second and thirdand the driver of the winning german car was reported a belgian.each blue car, therefore, received a double measure of welcome as ittopped the crest of the hill and each cheer of welcome was acknowledgedwith smiles and nods by those in the car. in one of these trimly built carswas a party of four young men whose spirits seemed to be at presentwell above the level of successful gallicism: in fact, these fouryoung men were almost hilarious. they were charles segouin, theowner of the car; andre

riviere, a young electrician of canadian birth;a huge hungarian named villona and a neatly groomed young man nameddoyle. segouin was in good humour because he had unexpectedly receivedsome orders in advance (he was about to start a motor establishment inparis) and riviere was in good humour because he was to be appointedmanager of the establishment; these two young men (who were cousins) werealso in good humour because of the success of the french cars. villonawas in good humour because he had had a very satisfactory luncheon; andbesides he was an optimist by nature. the fourth member of the party, however,was too excited to be

genuinely happy. he was about twenty-six years of age, witha soft, light brown moustache and rather innocent-looking grey eyes. hisfather, who had begun life as an advanced nationalist, had modified hisviews early. he had made his money as a butcher in kingstown and by openingshops in dublin and in the suburbs he had made his money many timesover. he had also been fortunate enough to secure some of the policecontracts and in the end he had become rich enough to be alluded toin the dublin newspapers as a merchant prince. he had sent his son to englandto be educated in a big

catholic college and had afterwards sent himto dublin university to study law. jimmy did not study very earnestlyand took to bad courses for a while. he had money and he was popular;and he divided his time curiously between musical and motoring circles.then he had been sent for a term to cambridge to see a little life.his father, remonstrative, but covertly proud of the excess, had paidhis bills and brought him home. it was at cambridge that he had metsegouin. they were not much more than acquaintances as yet but jimmy foundgreat pleasure in the society of one who had seen so much of theworld and was reputed to

own some of the biggest hotels in france.such a person (as his father agreed) was well worth knowing, even if hehad not been the charming companion he was. villona was entertainingalso--a brilliant pianist--but, unfortunately, very poor. the car ran on merrily with its cargo of hilariousyouth. the two cousins sat on the front seat; jimmy and hishungarian friend sat behind. decidedly villona was in excellentspirits; he kept up a deep bass hum of melody for miles of the road.the frenchmen flung their laughter and light words over their shouldersand often jimmy had

to strain forward to catch the quick phrase.this was not altogether pleasant for him, as he had nearly alwaysto make a deft guess at the meaning and shout back a suitable answer inthe face of a high wind. besides villona's humming would confuse anybody;the noise of the car, too. rapid motion through space elates one; sodoes notoriety; so does the possession of money. these were threegood reasons for jimmy's excitement. he had been seen by many of hisfriends that day in the company of these continentals. at the controlsegouin had presented him

to one of the french competitors and, in answerto his confused murmur of compliment, the swarthy face of the driverhad disclosed a line of shining white teeth. it was pleasant afterthat honour to return to the profane world of spectators amid nudges andsignificant looks. then as to money--he really had a great sum underhis control. segouin, perhaps, would not think it a great sum but jimmy who,in spite of temporary errors, was at heart the inheritor of solidinstincts knew well with what difficulty it had been got together.this knowledge had previously kept his bills within the limits of reasonablerecklessness, and, if he

had been so conscious of the labour latentin money when there had been question merely of some freak of the higherintelligence, how much more so now when he was about to stake the greaterpart of his substance! it was a serious thing for him. of course, the investment was a good one andsegouin had managed to give the impression that it was by a favour offriendship the mite of irish money was to be included in the capital ofthe concern. jimmy had a respect for his father's shrewdness in businessmatters and in this case it had been his father who had first suggestedthe investment; money to

be made in the motor business, pots of money.moreover segouin had the unmistakable air of wealth. jimmy set outto translate into days' work that lordly car in which he sat. how smoothlyit ran. in what style they had come careering along the country roads!the journey laid a magical finger on the genuine pulse of life and gallantlythe machinery of human nerves strove to answer the bounding coursesof the swift blue animal. they drove down dame street. the street wasbusy with unusual traffic, loud with the horns of motoristsand the gongs of impatient tram-drivers. near the bank segouin drew upand jimmy and his friend

alighted. a little knot of people collectedon the footpath to pay homage to the snorting motor. the party wasto dine together that evening in segouin's hotel and, meanwhile,jimmy and his friend, who was staying with him, were to go home to dress.the car steered out slowly for grafton street while the two young menpushed their way through the knot of gazers. they walked northwardwith a curious feeling of disappointment in the exercise, while thecity hung its pale globes of light above them in a haze of summer evening. in jimmy's house this dinner had been pronouncedan occasion. a certain

pride mingled with his parents' trepidation,a certain eagerness, also, to play fast and loose for the names of greatforeign cities have at least this virtue. jimmy, too, looked verywell when he was dressed and, as he stood in the hall giving a last equationto the bows of his dress tie, his father may have felt even commerciallysatisfied at having secured for his son qualities often unpurchaseable.his father, therefore, was unusually friendly with villonaand his manner expressed a real respect for foreign accomplishments;but this subtlety of his host was probably lost upon the hungarian,who was beginning to have a

sharp desire for his dinner. the dinner was excellent, exquisite. segouin,jimmy decided, had a very refined taste. the party was increased bya young englishman named routh whom jimmy had seen with segouin at cambridge.the young men supped in a snug room lit by electric candle-lamps.they talked volubly and with little reserve. jimmy, whose imagination waskindling, conceived the lively youth of the frenchmen twined elegantlyupon the firm framework of the englishman's manner. a graceful imageof his, he thought, and a just one. he admired the dexterity with whichtheir host directed the

conversation. the five young men had varioustastes and their tongues had been loosened. villona, with immense respect,began to discover to the mildly surprised englishman the beautiesof the english madrigal, deploring the loss of old instruments. riviere,not wholly ingenuously, undertook to explain to jimmy the triumphof the french mechanicians. the resonant voice of the hungarian was aboutto prevail in ridicule of the spurious lutes of the romantic painterswhen segouin shepherded his party into politics. here was congenial groundfor all. jimmy, under generous influences, felt the buried zealof his father wake to life

within him: he aroused the torpid routh atlast. the room grew doubly hot and segouin's task grew harder each moment:there was even danger of personal spite. the alert host at an opportunitylifted his glass to humanity and, when the toast had been drunk,he threw open a window significantly. that night the city wore the mask of a capital.the five young men strolled along stephen's green in a faintcloud of aromatic smoke. they talked loudly and gaily and their cloaks dangledfrom their shoulders. the people made way for them. at the cornerof grafton street a short

fat man was putting two handsome ladies ona car in charge of another fat man. the car drove off and the short fatman caught sight of the party. "andre." "it's farley!" a torrent of talk followed. farley was anamerican. no one knew very well what the talk was about. villona andriviere were the noisiest, but all the men were excited. they got upon a car, squeezing themselves together amid much laughter. they drove bythe crowd, blended now into

soft colours, to a music of merry bells. theytook the train at westland row and in a few seconds, as it seemed tojimmy, they were walking out of kingstown station. the ticket-collectorsaluted jimmy; he was an old man: "fine night, sir!" it was a serene summer night; the harbourlay like a darkened mirror at their feet. they proceeded towards it withlinked arms, singing cadet roussel in chorus, stamping their feet atevery: "ho! ho! hohe, vraiment!"

they got into a rowboat at the slip and madeout for the american's yacht. there was to be supper, music, cards.villona said with conviction: "it is delightful!" there was a yacht piano in the cabin. villonaplayed a waltz for farley and riviere, farley acting as cavalier andriviere as lady. then an impromptu square dance, the men devisingoriginal figures. what merriment! jimmy took his part with a will;this was seeing life, at least. then farley got out of breath and cried"stop!" a man brought in

a light supper, and the young men sat downto it for form's sake. they drank, however: it was bohemian. they drankireland, england, france, hungary, the united states of america. jimmymade a speech, a long speech, villona saying: "hear! hear!" wheneverthere was a pause. there was a great clapping of hands when he satdown. it must have been a good speech. farley clapped him on the back andlaughed loudly. what jovial fellows! what good company they were! cards! cards! the table was cleared. villonareturned quietly to his piano and played voluntaries for them. theother men played game after

game, flinging themselves boldly into theadventure. they drank the health of the queen of hearts and of the queenof diamonds. jimmy felt obscurely the lack of an audience: the witwas flashing. play ran very high and paper began to pass. jimmy did notknow exactly who was winning but he knew that he was losing. butit was his own fault for he frequently mistook his cards and the othermen had to calculate his i.o.u.'s for him. they were devils of fellowsbut he wished they would stop: it was getting late. someone gave thetoast of the yacht the belle of newport and then someone proposed one greatgame for a finish.

the piano had stopped; villona must have goneup on deck. it was a terrible game. they stopped just before theend of it to drink for luck. jimmy understood that the game lay betweenrouth and segouin. what excitement! jimmy was excited too; he wouldlose, of course. how much had he written away? the men rose to theirfeet to play the last tricks. talking and gesticulating. routh won. thecabin shook with the young men's cheering and the cards were bundledtogether. they began then to gather in what they had won. farley and jimmywere the heaviest losers. he knew that he would regret in the morningbut at present he was glad

of the rest, glad of the dark stupor thatwould cover up his folly. he leaned his elbows on the table and restedhis head between his hands, counting the beats of his temples. the cabindoor opened and he saw the hungarian standing in a shaft of grey light: "daybreak, gentlemen!" two gallants the grey warm evening of august had descendedupon the city and a mild warm air, a memory of summer, circulated inthe streets. the streets, shuttered for the repose of sunday, swarmedwith a gaily coloured crowd.

like illumined pearls the lamps shone fromthe summits of their tall poles upon the living texture below which,changing shape and hue unceasingly, sent up into the warm grey eveningair an unchanging unceasing murmur. two young men came down the hill of rutlandsquare. one of them was just bringing a long monologue to a close. theother, who walked on the verge of the path and was at times obliged to stepon to the road, owing to his companion's rudeness, wore an amused listeningface. he was squat and ruddy. a yachting cap was shoved far backfrom his forehead and the

narrative to which he listened made constantwaves of expression break forth over his face from the corners of hisnose and eyes and mouth. little jets of wheezing laughter followedone another out of his convulsed body. his eyes, twinkling with cunningenjoyment, glanced at every moment towards his companion's face.once or twice he rearranged the light waterproof which he had slung overone shoulder in toreador fashion. his breeches, his white rubber shoesand his jauntily slung waterproof expressed youth. but his figurefell into rotundity at the waist, his hair was scant and grey and hisface, when the waves of

expression had passed over it, had a ravagedlook. when he was quite sure that the narrativehad ended he laughed noiselessly for fully half a minute. thenhe said: "well!... that takes the biscuit!" his voice seemed winnowed of vigour; and toenforce his words he added with humour: "that takes the solitary, unique, and, ifi may so call it, recherche biscuit!" he became serious and silent when he had saidthis. his tongue was tired

for he had been talking all the afternoonin a public-house in dorset street. most people considered lenehan a leechbut, in spite of this reputation, his adroitness and eloquence hadalways prevented his friends from forming any general policy againsthim. he had a brave manner of coming up to a party of them ina bar and of holding himself nimbly at the borders of the company untilhe was included in a round. he was a sporting vagrant armed with a vaststock of stories, limericks and riddles. he was insensitive to all kindsof discourtesy. no one knew how he achieved the stern task of living,but his name was vaguely

associated with racing tissues. "and where did you pick her up, corley?" heasked. corley ran his tongue swiftly along his upperlip. "one night, man," he said, "i was going alongdame street and i spotted a fine tart under waterhouse's clock and saidgood-night, you know. so we went for a walk round by the canal andshe told me she was a slavey in a house in baggot street. i put my armround her and squeezed her a bit that night. then next sunday, man, i mether by appointment. we went out to donnybrook and i brought her into afield there. she told me she

used to go with a dairyman.... it was fine,man. cigarettes every night she'd bring me and paying the tram out andback. and one night she brought me two bloody fine cigars--o, thereal cheese, you know, that the old fellow used to smoke.... i was afraid,man, she'd get in the family way. but she's up to the dodge." "maybe she thinks you'll marry her," saidlenehan. "i told her i was out of a job," said corley."i told her i was in pim's. she doesn't know my name. i was toohairy to tell her that. but she 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 takes the biscuit." corley's stride acknowledged the compliment.the swing of his burly body made his friend execute a few light skipsfrom the path to the roadway and back again. corley was the son of an inspectorof police and he had inherited his father's frame and gait. hewalked with his hands by his sides, holding himself erect and swaying hishead from side to side. his head was large, globular and oily; it sweatedin all weathers; and his

large round hat, set upon it sideways, lookedlike a bulb which had grown out of another. he always stared straightbefore him as if he were on parade and, when he wished to gaze aftersomeone in the street, it was necessary for him to move his body fromthe hips. at present he was about town. whenever any job was vacant afriend was always ready to give him the hard word. he was often to beseen walking with policemen in plain clothes, talking earnestly. he knewthe inner side of all affairs and was fond of delivering final judgments.he spoke without listening to the speech of his companions.his conversation was mainly

about himself: what he had said to such aperson and what such a person had said to him and what he had said to settlethe matter. when he reported these dialogues he aspirated thefirst letter of his name after the manner of florentines. lenehan offered his friend a cigarette. asthe two young men walked on through the crowd corley occasionally turnedto smile at some of the passing girls but lenehan's gaze was fixedon the large faint moon circled with a double halo. he watched earnestlythe passing of the grey web of twilight across its face. at lengthhe said:

"well... tell me, corley, i suppose you'llbe able to pull it off all right, eh?" corley closed one eye expressively as an answer. "is she game for that?" asked lenehan dubiously."you can never know women." "she's all right," said corley. "i know theway to get around her, man. she's a bit gone on me." "you're what i call a gay lothario," saidlenehan. "and the proper kind of a lothario, too!"

a shade of mockery relieved the servilityof his manner. to save himself he had the habit of leaving his flattery opento the interpretation of raillery. but corley had not a subtle mind. "there's nothing to touch a good slavey,"he affirmed. "take my tip for it." "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 takethem out, man, on the tram somewhere and pay the tram or take themto a band or a play at the

theatre or buy them chocolate and sweets orsomething that way. i used to spend money on them right enough," he added,in a convincing tone, as if he was conscious of being disbelieved. but lenehan could well believe it; he noddedgravely. "i know that game," he said, "and it's a mug'sgame." "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 histongue along it. the

recollection brightened his eyes. he too gazedat the pale disc of the moon, 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 drivingdown earl street one night with two fellows with her on a car." "i suppose that's your doing," said lenehan. "there was others at her before me," saidcorley philosophically. this time lenehan was inclined to disbelieve.he shook his head to and

fro and smiled. "you know you can't kid me, corley," he said. "honest to god!" said corley. "didn't shetell me herself?" lenehan made a tragic gesture. "base betrayer!" he said. as they passed along the railings of trinitycollege, lenehan skipped out into the road and peered up at the clock. "twenty after," he said. "time enough," said corley. "she'll be thereall right. i always let her

wait a bit." lenehan laughed quietly. "ecod! corley, you know how to take them,"he said. "i'm up to all their little tricks," corleyconfessed. "but tell me," said lenehan again, "are yousure you can bring it off all right? you know it's a ticklish job. they'redamn close on that point. eh?... what?" his bright, small eyes searched his companion'sface for reassurance. corley swung his head to and fro as if totoss aside an insistent

insect, and his brows gathered. "i'll pull it off," he said. "leave it tome, can't you?" lenehan said no more. he did not wish to rufflehis friend's temper, to be sent to the devil and told that his advicewas not wanted. a little tact was necessary. but corley's brow wassoon smooth again. his thoughts were running another way. "she's a fine decent tart," he said, withappreciation; "that's what she is." they walked along nassau street and then turnedinto kildare street. not

far from the porch of the club a harpist stoodin the roadway, playing to a little ring of listeners. he pluckedat the wires heedlessly, glancing quickly from time to time at theface of each new-comer and from time to time, wearily also, at the sky.his harp, too, heedless that her coverings had fallen about her knees,seemed weary alike of the eyes of strangers and of her master's hands.one hand played in the bass the melody of silent, o moyle, whilethe other hand careered in the treble after each group of notes. the notesof the air sounded deep and full.

the two young men walked up the street withoutspeaking, the mournful music following them. when they reached stephen'sgreen they crossed the road. here the noise of trams, the lightsand the crowd released them from their silence. "there she is!" said corley. at the corner of hume street a young womanwas standing. she wore a blue dress and a white sailor hat. she stood onthe curbstone, swinging a sunshade in one hand. lenehan grew lively. "let's have a look at her, corley," he said.

corley glanced sideways at his friend andan unpleasant grin appeared on his face. "are you trying to get inside me?" he asked. "damn it!" said lenehan boldly, "i don't wantan introduction. all i want is to have a look at her. i'm not goingto eat her." "o... a look at her?" said corley, more amiably."well... i'll tell you what. i'll go over and talk to her and youcan pass by." "right!" said lenehan. corley had already thrown one leg over thechains when lenehan called

out: "and after? where will we meet?" "half ten," answered corley, bringing overhis other leg. "where?" "corner of merrion street. we'll be comingback." "work it all right now," said lenehan in farewell. corley did not answer. he sauntered acrossthe road swaying his head from side to side. his bulk, his easy pace,and the solid sound of his boots had something of the conqueror in them.he approached the young

woman and, without saluting, began at onceto converse with her. she swung her umbrella more quickly and executedhalf turns on her heels. once or twice when he spoke to her at closequarters she laughed and bent her head. lenehan observed them for a few minutes. thenhe walked rapidly along beside the chains at some distance and crossedthe road obliquely. as he approached hume street corner he found theair heavily scented and his eyes made a swift anxious scrutiny of theyoung woman's appearance. she had her sunday finery on. her blue serge skirtwas held at the waist by

a belt of black leather. the great silverbuckle of her belt seemed to depress the centre of her body, catching thelight stuff of her white blouse like a clip. she wore a short blackjacket with mother-of-pearl buttons and a ragged black boa. the ends ofher tulle collarette had been carefully disordered and a big bunchof red flowers was pinned in her bosomm stems upwards. lenehan's eyesnoted approvingly her stout short muscular body. frank rude health glowedin her face, on her fat red cheeks and in her unabashed blue eyes. herfeatures were blunt. she had broad nostrils, a straggling mouth which layopen in a contented leer,

and two projecting front teeth. as he passedlenehan took off his cap and, after about ten seconds, corley returneda salute to the air. this he did by raising his hand vaguely and pensivelychanging the angle of position of his hat. lenehan walked as far as the shelbourne hotelwhere he halted and waited. after waiting for a little time hesaw them coming towards him and, when they turned to the right, he followedthem, stepping lightly in his white shoes, down one side of merrionsquare. as he walked on slowly, timing his pace to theirs, he watchedcorley's head which turned

at every moment towards the young woman'sface like a big ball revolving on a pivot. he kept the pair in view untilhe had seen them climbing the stairs of the donnybrook tram; then he turnedabout and went back the way he had come. now that he was alone his face looked older.his gaiety seemed to forsake him and, as he came by the railingsof the duke's lawn, he allowed his hand to run along them. the airwhich the harpist had played began to control his movements. his softlypadded feet played the melody while his fingers swept a scale of variationsidly along the railings

after each group of notes. he walked listlessly round stephen's greenand then down grafton street. though his eyes took note of many elementsof the crowd through which he passed they did so morosely. he found trivialall that was meant to charm him and did not answer the glances whichinvited him to be bold. he knew that he would have to speak a greatdeal, to invent and to amuse, and his brain and throat were too dry forsuch a task. the problem of how he could pass the hours till he met corleyagain troubled him a little. he could think of no way of passingthem but to keep on walking.

he turned to the left when he came to thecorner of rutland square and felt more at ease in the dark quiet street,the sombre look of which suited his mood. he paused at last beforethe window of a poor-looking shop over which the words refreshment barwere printed in white letters. on the glass of the window were two flyinginscriptions: ginger beer and ginger ale. a cut ham was exposed on a greatblue dish while near it on a plate lay a segment of very light plum-pudding.he eyed this food earnestly for some time and then, after glancingwarily up and down the street, went into the shop quickly.

he was hungry for, except some biscuits whichhe had asked two grudging curates to bring him, he had eaten nothingsince breakfast-time. he sat down at an uncovered wooden table oppositetwo work-girls and a mechanic. 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, "anda bottle of ginger beer." he spoke roughly in order to belie his airof gentility for his entry had been followed by a pause of talk. hisface was heated. to appear

natural he pushed his cap back on his headand planted his elbows on the table. the mechanic and the two work-girlsexamined him point by point before resuming their conversation in a subduedvoice. the girl brought him a plate of grocer's hot peas, seasonedwith pepper and vinegar, a fork and his ginger beer. he ate his foodgreedily and found it so good that he made a note of the shop mentally.when he had eaten all the peas he sipped his ginger beer and sat for sometime thinking of corley's adventure. in his imagination he beheld thepair of lovers walking along some dark road; he heard corley's voice indeep energetic gallantries

and saw again the leer of the young woman'smouth. this vision made him feel keenly his own poverty of purse andspirit. he was tired of knocking about, of pulling the devil bythe tail, of shifts and intrigues. he would be thirty-one in november.would he never get a good job? would he never have a home of his own?he thought how pleasant it would be to have a warm fire to sit by anda good dinner to sit down to. he had walked the streets long enough withfriends and with girls. he knew what those friends were worth: he knewthe girls too. experience had embittered his heart against the world.but all hope had not left

him. he felt better after having eaten thanhe had felt before, less weary of his life, less vanquished in spirit.he might yet be able to settle down in some snug corner and live happilyif he could only come across some good simple-minded girl with alittle of the ready. he paid twopence halfpenny to the slatternlygirl and went out of the shop to begin his wandering again. he wentinto capel street and walked along towards the city hall. then he turnedinto dame street. at the corner of george's street he met two friendsof his and stopped to converse with them. he was glad that he couldrest from all his walking.

his friends asked him had he seen corley andwhat was the latest. he replied that he had spent the day with corley.his friends talked very little. they looked vacantly after somefigures in the crowd and sometimes made a critical remark. one saidthat he had seen mac an hour before in westmoreland street. at this lenehansaid that he had been with mac the night before in egan's. the youngman who had seen mac in westmoreland street asked was it true thatmac had won a bit over a billiard match. lenehan did not know: hesaid that holohan had stood them drinks in egan's.

he left his friends at a quarter to ten andwent up george's street. he turned to the left at the city marketsand walked on into grafton street. the crowd of girls and young men hadthinned and on his way up the street he heard many groups and couplesbidding one another good-night. he went as far as the clock ofthe college of surgeons: it was on the stroke of ten. he set off brisklyalong the northern side of the green hurrying for fear corley shouldreturn too soon. when he reached the corner of merrion street he tookhis stand in the shadow of a lamp and brought out one of the cigaretteswhich he had reserved and

lit it. he leaned against the lamp-post andkept his gaze fixed on the part from which he expected to see corleyand the young woman return. his mind became active again. he wonderedhad corley managed it successfully. he wondered if he had askedher yet or if he would leave it to the last. he suffered all the pangsand thrills of his friend's situation as well as those of his own. butthe memory of corley's slowly revolving head calmed him somewhat: he wassure corley would pull it off all right. all at once the idea struck himthat perhaps corley had seen her home by another way and given him theslip. his eyes searched the

street: there was no sign of them. yet itwas surely half-an-hour since he had seen the clock of the college of surgeons.would corley do a thing like that? he lit his last cigaretteand began to smoke it nervously. he strained his eyes as each tramstopped at the far corner of the square. they must have gone home byanother way. the paper of his cigarette broke and he flung it into the roadwith a curse. suddenly he saw them coming towards him. hestarted with delight and, keeping close to his lamp-post, tried to readthe result in their walk. they were walking quickly, the young womantaking quick short steps,

while corley kept beside her with his longstride. they did not seem to be speaking. an intimation of the result prickedhim like the point of a sharp instrument. he knew corley would fail;he knew it was no go. they turned down baggot street and he followedthem at once, taking the other footpath. when they stopped he stoppedtoo. they talked for a few moments and then the young woman went downthe steps into the area of a house. corley remained standing at the edgeof the path, a little distance from the front steps. some minutespassed. then the hall-door was opened slowly and cautiously. a womancame running down the front

steps and coughed. corley turned and wenttowards her. his broad figure hid hers from view for a few seconds and thenshe reappeared running up the steps. the door closed on her and corleybegan to walk swiftly towards stephen's green. lenehan hurried on in the same direction.some drops of light rain fell. he took them as a warning and, glancing backtowards the house which the young woman had entered to see that he wasnot observed, he ran eagerly across the road. anxiety and his swift runmade him pant. he called out: "hallo, corley!"

corley turned his head to see who had calledhim, and then continued walking as before. lenehan ran after him,settling the waterproof on his shoulders with one hand. "hallo, corley!" he cried again. he came level with his friend and looked keenlyin his face. he could see 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 theside street. his features

were composed in stern calm. lenehan keptup with his friend, breathing uneasily. he was baffled and a note of menacepierced through his voice. "can't you tell us?" he said. "did you tryher?" corley halted at the first lamp and staredgrimly before him. then with a grave gesture he extended a hand towardsthe 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. shewas a woman who was quite

able to keep things to herself: a determinedwoman. she had married her father's foreman and opened a butcher's shopnear spring gardens. but as soon as his father-in-law was dead mr. mooneybegan to go to the devil. he drank, plundered the till, ran headlonginto debt. it was no use making him take the pledge: he was sure tobreak out again a few days after. by fighting his wife in the presenceof customers and by buying bad meat he ruined his business. one nighthe went for his wife with the cleaver and she had to sleep in a neighbour'shouse. after that they lived apart. she went to thepriest and got a separation

from him with care of the children. she wouldgive him neither money nor food nor house-room; and so he was obligedto enlist himself as a sheriff's man. he was a shabby stooped littledrunkard with a white face and a white moustache and white eyebrows,pencilled above his little eyes, which were pink-veined and raw; and all daylong he sat in the bailiff's room, waiting to be put on a job. mrs. mooney,who had taken what remained of her money out of the butcher businessand set up a boarding house in hardwicke street, was a big imposingwoman. her house had a floating population made up of tourists fromliverpool and the isle

of man and, occasionally, artistes from themusic halls. its resident population was made up of clerks from thecity. she governed her house cunningly and firmly, knew when to give credit,when to be stern and when to let things pass. all the residentyoung men spoke of her as the madam. mrs. mooney's young men paid fifteen shillingsa week for board and lodgings (beer or stout at dinner excluded).they shared in common tastes and occupations and for this reasonthey were very chummy with one another. they discussed with one anotherthe chances of favourites

and outsiders. jack mooney, the madam's son,who was clerk to a commission agent in fleet street, had thereputation of being a hard case. he was fond of using soldiers' obscenities:usually he came home in the small hours. when he met his friendshe had always a good one to tell them and he was always sure to beon to a good thing--that is to say, a likely horse or a likely artiste. hewas also handy with the mits and sang comic songs. on sunday nights therewould often be a reunion in mrs. mooney's front drawing-room. the music-hallartistes would oblige; and sheridan played waltzes and polkas andvamped accompaniments. polly

mooney, 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 hadlight soft hair and a small full mouth. her eyes, which were grey witha shade of green through them, had a habit of glancing upwards whenshe spoke with anyone, which made her look like a little perverse madonna.mrs. mooney had first sent her daughter to be a typist in a corn-factor'soffice but, as a disreputable sheriff's man used to come everyother day to the office,

asking to be allowed to say a word to hisdaughter, she had taken her daughter home again and set her to do housework.as polly was very lively the intention was to give her the runof the young men. besides, young men like to feel that there is a youngwoman not very far away. polly, of course, flirted with the young menbut mrs. mooney, who was a shrewd judge, knew that the young men wereonly passing the time away: none of them meant business. things went onso for a long time and mrs. mooney began to think of sending polly backto typewriting when she noticed that something was going on betweenpolly and one of the young

men. she watched the pair and kept her owncounsel. polly knew that she was being watched, butstill her mother's persistent silence could not be misunderstood. therehad been no open complicity between mother and daughter, no open understandingbut, though people in the house began to talk of the affair,still mrs. mooney did not intervene. polly began to grow a little strangein her manner and the young man was evidently perturbed. at last,when she judged it to be the right moment, mrs. mooney intervened. shedealt with moral problems as a cleaver deals with meat: and in this caseshe had made up her mind.

it was a bright sunday morning of early summer,promising heat, but with a fresh breeze blowing. all the windows ofthe boarding house were open and the lace curtains ballooned gently towardsthe street beneath the raised sashes. the belfry of george's churchsent out constant peals and worshippers, singly or in groups, traversedthe little circus before the church, revealing their purpose by theirself-contained demeanour no less than by the little volumes in theirgloved hands. breakfast was over in the boarding house and the tableof the breakfast-room was covered with plates on which lay yellow streaksof eggs with morsels

of bacon-fat and bacon-rind. mrs. mooney satin the straw arm-chair and watched the servant mary remove the breakfastthings. she made mary collect the crusts and pieces of broken breadto help to make tuesday's bread-pudding. when the table was cleared,the broken bread collected, the sugar and butter safe under lock and key,she began to reconstruct the interview which she had had the nightbefore with polly. things were as she had suspected: she had been frank inher questions and polly had been frank in her answers. both had been somewhatawkward, of course. she had been made awkward by her not wishingto receive the news in too

cavalier a fashion or to seem to have connivedand polly had been made awkward not merely because allusionsof that kind always made her awkward but also because she did not wishit to be thought that in her wise innocence she had divined the intentionbehind her mother's tolerance. mrs. mooney glanced instinctively at the littlegilt clock on the mantelpiece as soon as she had become awarethrough her revery that the bells of george's church had stopped ringing.it was seventeen minutes past eleven: she would have lots of time tohave the matter out with mr.

doran and then catch short twelve at marlboroughstreet. she was sure she would win. to begin with she had all theweight of social opinion on her side: she was an outraged mother. shehad allowed him to live beneath her roof, assuming that he was a manof honour, and he had simply abused her hospitality. he was thirty-fouror thirty-five years of age, so that youth could not be pleaded as hisexcuse; nor could ignorance be his excuse since he was a man who had seensomething of the world. he had simply taken advantage of polly's youthand inexperience: that was evident. the question was: what reparationwould he make?

there must be reparation made in such cases.it is all very well for the man: he can go his ways as if nothinghad happened, having had his moment of pleasure, but the girl has to bearthe brunt. some mothers would be content to patch up such an affairfor a sum of money; she had known cases of it. but she would not do so.for her only one reparation could make up for the loss of her daughter'shonour: marriage. she counted all her cards again before sendingmary up to mr. doran's room to say that she wished to speak with him.she felt sure she would win. he was a serious young man, not rakish orloud-voiced like the others.

if it had been mr. sheridan or mr. meade orbantam lyons her task would have been much harder. she did not think hewould face publicity. all the lodgers in the house knew something ofthe affair; details had been invented by some. besides, he had been employedfor thirteen years in a great catholic wine-merchant's office andpublicity would mean for him, perhaps, the loss of his job. whereas if heagreed all might be well. she knew he had a good screw for one thingand she suspected he had a bit of stuff put by. nearly the half-hour! she stood up and surveyedherself in the

pier-glass. the decisive expression of hergreat florid face satisfied her and she thought of some mothers she knewwho could not get their daughters off their hands. mr. doran was very anxious indeed this sundaymorning. he had made two attempts to shave but his hand had been sounsteady that he had been obliged to desist. three days' reddish beardfringed his jaws and every two or three minutes a mist gathered on hisglasses so that he had to take them off and polish them with hispocket-handkerchief. the recollection of his confession of the nightbefore was a cause of acute

pain to him; the priest had drawn out everyridiculous detail of the affair and in the end had so magnified hissin that he was almost thankful at being afforded a loophole of reparation.the harm was done. what could he do now but marry her or runaway? he could not brazen it out. the affair would be sure to be talkedof and his employer would be certain to hear of it. dublin is such asmall city: everyone knows everyone else's business. he felt his heartleap warmly in his throat as he heard in his excited imagination old mr.leonard calling out in his rasping voice: "send mr. doran here, please."

all his long years of service gone for nothing!all his industry and diligence thrown away! as a young man he hadsown his wild oats, of course; he had boasted of his free-thinkingand denied the existence of god to his companions in public-houses. butthat was all passed and done with... nearly. he still bought a copy ofreynolds's newspaper every week but he attended to his religious dutiesand for nine-tenths of the year lived a regular life. he had money enoughto settle down on; it was not that. but the family would look down onher. first of all there was her disreputable father and then her mother'sboarding house was

beginning to get a certain fame. he had anotion that he was being had. he could imagine his friends talking of theaffair and laughing. she was a little vulgar; some times she said "i seen"and "if i had've known." but what would grammar matter if he reallyloved her? he could not make up his mind whether to like her or despiseher for what she had done. of course he had done it too. his instinct urgedhim to remain free, not to marry. once you are married you are done for,it said. while he was sitting helplessly on the sideof the bed in shirt and trousers she tapped lightly at his door andentered. she told him all,

that she had made a clean breast of it toher mother and that her mother would speak with him that morning. she criedand threw her arms round his neck, saying: "o bob! bob! what am i to do? what am i todo at all?" she would put an end to herself, she said. he comforted her feebly, telling her not tocry, that it would be all right, never fear. he felt against his shirtthe agitation of her bosom. it was not altogether his fault that it hadhappened. he remembered well, with the curious patient memory of thecelibate, the first casual

caresses her dress, her breath, her fingershad given him. then late one night as he was undressing for bed she hadtapped at his door, timidly. she wanted to relight her candle at his for hershad been blown out by a gust. it was her bath night. she wore a looseopen combing-jacket of printed flannel. her white instep shone inthe opening of her furry slippers and the blood glowed warmly behindher perfumed skin. from her hands and wrists too as she lit and steadiedher candle a faint perfume arose. on nights when he came in very late it wasshe who warmed up his dinner.

he scarcely knew what he was eating, feelingher beside him alone, at night, in the sleeping house. and her thoughtfulness!if the night was anyway cold or wet or windy there was sureto be a little tumbler of punch ready for him. perhaps they could behappy together.... they used to go upstairs together on tiptoe,each with a candle, and on the third landing exchange reluctant good-nights.they used to kiss. he remembered well her eyes, the touch of herhand and his delirium.... but delirium passes. he echoed her phrase,applying it to himself: "what am i to do?" the instinct of the celibatewarned him to hold back. but

the sin was there; even his sense of honourtold him that reparation must be made for such a sin. while he was sitting with her on the sideof the bed mary came to the door and said that the missus wanted to seehim in the parlour. he stood up to put on his coat and waistcoat, morehelpless than ever. when he was dressed he went over to her to comforther. it would be all right, never fear. he left her crying on the bedand moaning softly: "o my god!" going down the stairs his glasses became sodimmed with moisture that

he had to take them off and polish them. helonged to ascend through the roof and fly away to another country wherehe would never hear again of his trouble, and yet a force pushed himdownstairs step by step. the implacable faces of his employer and ofthe madam stared upon his discomfiture. on the last flight of stairshe passed jack mooney who was coming up from the pantry nursing twobottles of bass. they saluted coldly; and the lover's eyes rested for asecond or two on a thick bulldog face and a pair of thick short arms.when he reached the foot of the staircase he glanced up and saw jack regardinghim from the door of

the return-room. suddenly he remembered the night when oneof the music-hall artistes, a little blond londoner, had made a ratherfree allusion to polly. the reunion had been almost broken up on accountof jack's violence. everyone tried to quiet him. the music-hallartiste, a little paler than usual, kept smiling and saying that therewas no harm meant: but jack kept shouting at him that if any fellow triedthat sort of a game on with his sister he'd bloody well put his teethdown his throat, so he would.

polly sat for a little time on the side ofthe bed, crying. then she dried her eyes and went over to the looking-glass.she dipped the end of the towel in the water-jug and refreshed hereyes with the cool water. she looked at herself in profile and readjusteda hairpin above her ear. then she went back to the bed again and satat the foot. she regarded the pillows for a long time and the sightof them awakened in her mind secret, amiable memories. she rested the napeof her neck against the cool iron bed-rail and fell into a reverie.there was no longer any perturbation visible on her face.

she waited on patiently, almost cheerfully,without alarm, her memories gradually giving place to hopes and visionsof the future. her hopes and visions were so intricate that she no longersaw the white pillows on which her gaze was fixed or rememberedthat she was waiting for anything. at last she heard her mother calling. shestarted to her feet and ran to the banisters. "polly! polly!" "yes, mamma?"

"come down, dear. mr. doran wants to speakto you." then she remembered what she had been waitingfor. a little cloud eight years before he had seen his friendoff at the north wall and wished him godspeed. gallaher had got on.you could tell that at once by his travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit,and fearless accent. few fellows had talents like his and fewer stillcould remain unspoiled by such success. gallaher's heart was in theright place and he had deserved to win. it was something to havea friend like that.

little chandler's thoughts ever since lunch-timehad been of his meeting with gallaher, of gallaher's invitation andof the great city london where gallaher lived. he was called littlechandler because, though he was but slightly under the average stature,he gave one the idea of being a little man. his hands were whiteand small, his frame was fragile, his voice was quiet and his mannerswere refined. he took the greatest care of his fair silken hair andmoustache and used perfume discreetly on his handkerchief. the half-moonsof his nails were perfect and when he smiled you caught a glimpse ofa row of childish white

teeth. as he sat at his desk in the king's inns hethought what changes those eight years had brought. the friend whom hehad known under a shabby and necessitous guise had become a brilliant figureon the london press. he turned often from his tiresome writing togaze out of the office window. the glow of a late autumn sunset covered thegrass plots and walks. it cast a shower of kindly golden dust on theuntidy nurses and decrepit old men who drowsed on the benches; it flickeredupon all the moving figures--on the children who ran screamingalong the gravel paths and

on everyone who passed through the gardens.he watched the scene and thought of life; and (as always happened whenhe thought of life) he became sad. a gentle melancholy took possessionof him. he felt how useless it was to struggle against fortune,this being the burden of wisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him. he remembered the books of poetry upon hisshelves at home. he had bought them in his bachelor days and manyan evening, as he sat in the little room off the hall, he had been temptedto take one down from the bookshelf and read out something to his wife.but shyness had always

held him back; and so the books had remainedon their shelves. at times he repeated lines to himself and this consoledhim. when his hour had struck he stood up and tookleave of his desk and of his fellow-clerks punctiliously. he emergedfrom under the feudal arch of the king's inns, a neat modest figure,and walked swiftly down henrietta street. the golden sunset was waningand the air had grown sharp. a horde of grimy children populatedthe street. they stood or ran in the roadway or crawled up the stepsbefore the gaping doors or squatted like mice upon the thresholds. littlechandler gave them no

thought. he picked his way deftly throughall that minute vermin-like life and under the shadow of the gaunt spectralmansions in which the old nobility of dublin had roystered. no memoryof the past touched him, for his mind was full of a present joy. he had never been in corless's but he knewthe value of the name. he knew that people went there after the theatreto eat oysters and drink liqueurs; and he had heard that the waitersthere spoke french and german. walking swiftly by at night he hadseen cabs drawn up before the door and richly dressed ladies, escorted bycavaliers, alight and

enter quickly. they wore noisy dresses andmany wraps. their faces were powdered and they caught up their dresses,when they touched earth, like alarmed atalantas. he had always passedwithout turning his head to look. it was his habit to walk swiftlyin the street even by day and whenever he found himself in the city lateat night he hurried on his way apprehensively and excitedly. sometimes,however, he courted the causes of his fear. he chose the darkest andnarrowest streets and, as he walked boldly forward, the silence thatwas spread about his footsteps troubled him, the wandering, silentfigures troubled him; and

at times a sound of low fugitive laughtermade him tremble like a leaf. he turned to the right towards capel street.ignatius gallaher on the london press! who would have thought it possibleeight years before? still, now that he reviewed the past, littlechandler could remember many signs of future greatness in his friend.people used to say that ignatius gallaher was wild. of course, hedid mix with a rakish set of fellows at that time, drank freely and borrowedmoney on all sides. in the end he had got mixed up in some shadyaffair, some money transaction: at least, that was one versionof his flight. but nobody

denied him talent. there was always a certain...something in ignatius gallaher that impressed you in spite of yourself.even when he was out at elbows and at his wits' end for money hekept up a bold face. little chandler remembered (and the remembrance broughta slight flush of pride to his cheek) one of ignatius gallaher's sayingswhen he was in a tight corner: "half time now, boys," he used to say light-heartedly."where's my considering cap?" that was ignatius gallaher all out; and, damnit, you couldn't but

admire him for it. little chandler quickened his pace. for thefirst time in his life he felt himself superior to the people he passed.for the first time his soul revolted against the dull ineleganceof capel street. there was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed youhad to go away. you could do nothing in dublin. as he crossed grattanbridge he looked down the river towards the lower quays and pitied thepoor stunted houses. they seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled togetheralong the riverbanks, their old coats covered with dust and soot,stupefied by the panorama

of sunset and waiting for the first chillof night bid them arise, shake themselves and begone. he wondered whetherhe could write a poem to express his idea. perhaps gallaher might beable to get it into some london paper for him. could he write somethingoriginal? he was not sure what idea he wished to express but the thoughtthat a poetic moment had touched him took life within him like an infanthope. he stepped onward bravely. every step brought him nearer to london, fartherfrom his own sober inartistic life. a light began to trembleon the horizon of his mind. he

was not so old--thirty-two. his temperamentmight be said to be just at the point of maturity. there were so manydifferent moods and impressions that he wished to express in verse.he felt them within him. he tried weigh to his soul to see if it wasa poet's soul. melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament,he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faithand resignation and simple joy. if he could give expression to it ina book of poems perhaps men would listen. he would never be popular: hesaw that. he could not sway the crowd but he might appeal to a littlecircle of kindred minds.

the english critics, perhaps, would recognisehim as one of the celtic school by reason of the melancholy tone ofhis poems; besides that, he would put in allusions. he began to inventsentences and phrases from the notice which his book would get. "mr.chandler has the gift of easy and graceful verse."... "wistful sadness pervadesthese poems."... "the celtic note." it was a pity his name was notmore irish-looking. perhaps it would be better to insert his mother'sname before the surname: thomas malone chandler, or better still: t.malone chandler. he would speak to gallaher about it.

he pursued his revery so ardently that hepassed his street and had to turn back. as he came near corless's hisformer agitation began to overmaster him and he halted before the doorin indecision. finally he opened the door and entered. the light and noise of the bar held him atthe doorways for a few moments. he looked about him, but his sightwas confused by the shining of many red and green wine-glasses the barseemed to him to be full of people and he felt that the people wereobserving him curiously. he glanced quickly to right and left (frowningslightly to make his errand

appear serious), but when his sight cleareda little he saw that nobody had turned to look at him: and there, sureenough, was ignatius gallaher leaning with his back against the counterand his feet planted far apart. "hallo, tommy, old hero, here you are! whatis it to be? what will you have? i'm taking whisky: better stuff thanwe get across the water. soda? lithia? no mineral? i'm the same. spoilsthe flavour.... here, garcon, bring us two halves of malt whisky,like a good fellow.... well, and how have you been pulling along sincei saw you last? dear god,

how old we're getting! do you see any signsof aging in me--eh, what? a little grey and thin on the top--what?" ignatius gallaher took off his hat and displayeda large closely cropped head. his face was heavy, pale and cleanshaven.his eyes, which were of bluish slate-colour, relieved his unhealthypallor and shone out plainly above the vivid orange tie he wore. betweenthese rival features the lips appeared very long and shapeless andcolourless. he bent his head and felt with two sympathetic fingers thethin hair at the crown. little chandler shook his head as a denial. ignatiusgalaher put on his hat

again. "it pulls you down," he said. "press life.always hurry and scurry, looking for copy and sometimes not findingit: and then, always to have something new in your stuff. damn proofs andprinters, i say, for a few days. i'm deuced glad, i can tell you, toget back to the old country. does a fellow good, a bit of a holiday. ifeel a ton better since i landed again in dear dirty dublin.... hereyou are, tommy. water? say when." little chandler allowed his whisky to be verymuch diluted.

"you don't know what's good for you, my boy,"said ignatius gallaher. "i drink mine neat." "i drink very little as a rule," said littlechandler modestly. "an odd half-one or so when i meet any of the oldcrowd: that's all." "ah well," said ignatius gallaher, cheerfully,"here's to us and to old times and old acquaintance." they clinked glasses and drank the toast. "i met some of the old gang today," said ignatiusgallaher. "o'hara seems to be in a bad way. what's he doing?"

"nothing," said little chandler. "he's goneto 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 seemedto be very flush.... poor o'hara! boose, i suppose?" "other things, too," said little chandlershortly. ignatius gallaher laughed. "tommy," he said, "i see you haven't changedan atom. you're the very same serious person that used to lecture meon sunday mornings when i

had a sore head and a fur on my tongue. you'dwant to knock about a bit in the world. have you never been anywhereeven for a trip?" "i've been to the isle of man," said littlechandler. "the isle of man!" he said. "go to londonor paris: paris, for choice. that'd do you good." "have you seen paris?" "i should think i have! i've knocked aboutthere a little." "and is it really so beautiful as they say?"asked little chandler. he sipped a little of his drink while ignatiusgallaher finished his

boldly. "beautiful?" said ignatius gallaher, pausingon the word and on the flavour of his drink. "it's not so beautiful,you know. of course, it is beautiful.... but it's the life of paris;that's the thing. ah, there's no city like paris for gaiety, movement, excitement...." little chandler finished his whisky and, aftersome trouble, succeeded in catching the barman's eye. he ordered thesame again. "i've been to the moulin rouge," ignatiusgallaher continued when the barman had removed their glasses, "and i'vebeen to all the bohemian

cafes. hot stuff! not for a pious chap likeyou, tommy." little chandler said nothing until the barmanreturned with two glasses: then he touched his friend's glass lightlyand reciprocated the former toast. he was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned.gallaher's accent and way of expressing himself did notplease him. there was something vulgar in his friend which he hadnot observed before. but perhaps it was only the result of living inlondon amid the bustle and competition of the press. the old personalcharm was still there under this new gaudy manner. and, after all, gallaherhad lived, he had seen

the world. little chandler looked at his friendenviously. "everything in paris is gay," said ignatiusgallaher. "they believe in enjoying life--and don't you think they'reright? if you want to enjoy yourself properly you must go to paris. and,mind you, they've a great feeling for the irish there. when they heardi was from ireland they were ready to eat me, man." little chandler took four or five sips fromhis glass. "tell me," he said, "is it true that parisis so... immoral as they say?"

ignatius gallaher made a catholic gesturewith his right arm. "every place is immoral," he said. "of courseyou do find spicy bits in paris. go to one of the students' balls, forinstance. that's lively, if you like, when the cocottes begin to let themselvesloose. you know what they are, i suppose?" "i've heard of them," said little chandler. ignatius gallaher drank off his whisky andshook his head. "ah," he said, "you may say what you like.there's no woman like the parisienne--for style, for go."

"then it is an immoral city," said littlechandler, with timid insistence--"i mean, compared with londonor dublin?" "london!" said ignatius gallaher. "it's sixof one and half-a-dozen of the other. you ask hogan, my boy. i showedhim a bit about london when he was over there. he'd open your eye....i say, tommy, don't make punch of that whisky: liquor up." "no, really...." "o, come on, another one won't do you anyharm. what is it? the same again, i suppose?"

"well... all right." "francois, the same again.... will you smoke,tommy?" ignatius gallaher produced his cigar-case.the two friends lit their cigars and puffed at them in silence untiltheir drinks were served. "i'll tell you my opinion," said ignatiusgallaher, emerging after some time from the clouds of smoke in which hehad taken refuge, "it's a rum world. talk of immorality! i've heard of cases--whatam i saying?--i've known them: cases of... immorality...." ignatius gallaher puffed thoughtfully at hiscigar and then, in a calm

historian's tone, he proceeded to sketch forhis friend some pictures of the corruption which was rife abroad. hesummarised the vices of many capitals and seemed inclined to award thepalm to berlin. some things he could not vouch for (his friends had toldhim), but of others he had had personal experience. he spared neither ranknor caste. he revealed many of the secrets of religious houses on thecontinent and described some of the practices which were fashionable inhigh society and ended by telling, with details, a story about an englishduchess--a story which he knew to be true. little chandler was astonished.

"ah, well," said ignatius gallaher, "herewe are in old jog-along dublin where nothing is known of such things." "how dull you must find it," said little chandler,"after all the other places you've seen!" "well," said ignatius gallaher, "it's a relaxationto 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 forit. that's human nature.... but tell me something about yourself. hogantold me you had... tasted the joys of connubial bliss. two years ago,wasn't it?"

little chandler blushed and smiled. "yes," he said. "i was married last may twelvemonths." "i hope it's not too late in the day to offermy best wishes," said ignatius gallaher. "i didn't know your addressor i'd have done so at the time." he extended his hand, which little chandlertook. "well, tommy," he said, "i wish you and yoursevery joy in life, old chap, and tons of money, and may you neverdie till i shoot you. and that's the wish of a sincere friend, an oldfriend. 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 sonorouslyon the back. "bravo," he said, "i wouldn't doubt you, tommy." little chandler smiled, looked confusedlyat his glass and bit his lower

lip with three childishly white front teeth. "i hope you'll spend an evening with us,"he said, "before you go back. my wife will be delighted to meet you.we can have a little music and----" "thanks awfully, old chap," said ignatiusgallaher, "i'm sorry we didn't meet earlier. but i must leave tomorrow night." "tonight, perhaps...?" "i'm awfully sorry, old man. you see i'm overhere with another fellow, clever young chap he is too, and wearranged to go to a little

card-party. only for that..." "o, in that case..." "but who knows?" said ignatius gallaher considerately."next year i may take a little skip over here now that i'vebroken the ice. it's only a pleasure deferred." "very well," said little chandler, "the nexttime you come we must have an evening together. that's agreed now, isn'tit?" "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 one more now." ignatius gallaher took out a large gold watchand looked at it. "is it to be the last?" he said. "becauseyou know, i have an a.p." "o, yes, positively," said little chandler. "very well, then," said ignatius gallaher,"let us have another one as a deoc an doruis--that's good vernacular fora small whisky, i believe." little chandler ordered the drinks. the blushwhich had risen to his face a few moments before was establishingitself. a trifle made

him blush at any time: and now he felt warmand excited. three small whiskies had gone to his head and gallaher'sstrong cigar had confused his mind, for he was a delicate and abstinentperson. the adventure of meeting gallaher after eight years, of findinghimself with gallaher in corless's surrounded by lights and noise,of listening to gallaher's stories and of sharing for a brief space gallaher'svagrant and triumphant life, upset the equipoise of hissensitive nature. he felt acutely the contrast between his own lifeand his friend's and it seemed to him unjust. gallaher was his inferior inbirth and education. he was

sure that he could do something better thanhis friend had ever done, or could ever do, something higher than meretawdry journalism if he only got the chance. what was it that stood inhis way? his unfortunate timidity! he wished to vindicate himself insome way, to assert his manhood. he saw behind gallaher's refusalof his invitation. gallaher was only patronising him by his friendlinessjust as he was patronising ireland by his visit. the barman brought their drinks. little chandlerpushed one glass towards his friend and took up the other boldly.

"who knows?" he said, as they lifted theirglasses. "when you come next year i may have the pleasure of wishing longlife and happiness to mr. and mrs. ignatius gallaher." ignatius gallaher in the act of drinking closedone eye expressively over the rim of his glass. when he had drunkhe smacked his lips decisively, set down his glass and said: "no blooming fear of that, my boy. i'm goingto have my fling first and see a bit of life and the world before i putmy head in the sack--if i ever do."

"some day you will," said little chandlercalmly. ignatius gallaher turned his orange tie andslate-blue eyes full upon his friend. "you think so?" he said. "you'll put your head in the sack," repeatedlittle chandler stoutly, "like everyone else if you can find the girl." he had slightly emphasised his tone and hewas aware that he had betrayed himself; but, though the colour hadheightened in his cheek, he did not flinch from his friend's gaze. ignatiusgallaher watched him for

a few moments and then said: "if ever it occurs, you may bet your bottomdollar there'll be no mooning and spooning about it. i mean to marrymoney. she'll have a good fat account at the bank or she won't do forme." little chandler shook his head. "why, man alive," said ignatius gallaher,vehemently, "do you know what it is? i've only to say the word and tomorrowi can have the woman and the cash. you don't believe it? well,i know it. there are hundreds--what am i saying?--thousands ofrich germans and jews, rotten

with money, that'd only be too glad.... youwait a while my boy. see if i don't play my cards properly. when i goabout a thing i mean business, i tell you. you just wait." he tossed his glass to his mouth, finishedhis drink and laughed loudly. then he looked thoughtfully before him andsaid in a calmer tone: "but i'm in no hurry. they can wait. i don'tfancy tying myself up to one woman, you know." he imitated with his mouth the act of tastingand made a wry face. "must get a bit stale, i should think," hesaid.

* * * * * little chandler sat in the room off the hall,holding a child in his arms. to save money they kept no servant butannie's young sister monica came for an hour or so in the morning andan hour or so in the evening to help. but monica had gone home long ago.it was a quarter to nine. little chandler had come home late for teaand, moreover, he had forgotten to bring annie home the parcel ofcoffee from bewley's. of course she was in a bad humour and gave himshort answers. she said she would do without any tea but when it camenear the time at which the

shop at the corner closed she decided to goout herself for a quarter of a pound of tea and two pounds of sugar.she put the sleeping child deftly in his arms and said: "here. don't waken him." a little lamp with a white china shade stoodupon the table and its light fell over a photograph which was enclosedin a frame of crumpled horn. it was annie's photograph. little chandlerlooked at it, pausing at the thin tight lips. she wore the paleblue summer blouse which he had brought her home as a present one saturday.it had cost him ten and

elevenpence; but what an agony of nervousnessit had cost him! how he had suffered that day, waiting at the shopdoor until the shop was empty, standing at the counter and tryingto appear at his ease while the girl piled ladies' blouses before him,paying at the desk and forgetting to take up the odd penny of hischange, being called back by the cashier, and finally, striving to hidehis blushes as he left the shop by examining the parcel to see if itwas securely tied. when he brought the blouse home annie kissed him andsaid it was very pretty and stylish; but when she heard the price shethrew the blouse on the table

and said it was a regular swindle to chargeten and elevenpence for it. at first she wanted to take it back but whenshe tried it on she was delighted with it, especially with the makeof the sleeves, and kissed him and said he was very good to think ofher. hm!... he looked coldly into the eyes of the photographand they answered coldly. certainly they were pretty and theface itself was pretty. but he found something mean in it. why was itso unconscious and ladylike? the composure of the eyes irritated him. theyrepelled him and defied

him: there was no passion in them, no rapture.he thought of what gallaher had said about rich jewesses. thosedark oriental eyes, he thought, how full they are of passion, ofvoluptuous longing!... why had he married the eyes in the photograph? he caught himself up at the question and glancednervously round the room. he found something mean in the prettyfurniture which he had bought for his house on the hire system. anniehad chosen it herself and it reminded him of her. it too was primand pretty. a dull resentment against his life awoke within him. could henot escape from his little

house? was it too late for him to try to livebravely like gallaher? could he go to london? there was the furniturestill to be paid for. if he could only write a book and get it published,that might open the way for him. a volume of byron's poems lay before him onthe table. he opened it cautiously with his left hand lest he shouldwaken the child and began to read the first poem in the book: hushed are the winds and still the eveninggloom, 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 verseabout him in the room. how melancholy it was! could he, too, writelike that, express the melancholy of his soul in verse? there wereso many things he wanted to describe: his sensation of a few hoursbefore on grattan bridge, for example. if he could get back again into thatmood.... the child awoke and began to cry. he turnedfrom the page and tried to hush it: but it would not be hushed. he beganto rock it to and fro in his arms but its wailing cry grew keener.he rocked it faster while his

eyes 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'tdo anything. the wailing of the child pierced the drum of his ear.it was useless, useless! he was a prisoner for life. his arms trembledwith anger and suddenly bending to the child's face he shouted: "stop!" the child stopped for an instant, had a spasmof fright and began to scream. he jumped up from his chair and walkedhastily up and down the

room with the child in his arms. it beganto sob piteously, losing its breath for four or five seconds, and thenbursting out anew. the thin walls of the room echoed the sound. he triedto soothe it but it sobbed more convulsively. he looked at the contractedand quivering face of the child and began to be alarmed. he countedseven sobs without a break between them and caught the child tohis breast in fright. if it died!... the door was burst open and a young womanran in, panting. "what is it? what is it?" she cried.

the child, hearing its mother's voice, brokeout into a paroxysm of sobbing. "it's nothing, annie... it's nothing.... hebegan to cry..." she flung her parcels on the floor and snatchedthe child from him. "what have you done to him?" she cried, glaringinto his face. little chandler sustained for one moment thegaze of her eyes and his heart closed together as he met the hatredin them. he began to stammer: "it's nothing.... he... he began to cry....i couldn't... i didn't do anything.... what?"

giving no heed to him she began to walk upand down the room, clasping the child tightly in her arms and murmuring: "my little man! my little mannie! was 'oufrightened, love?... there now, love! there now!... lambabaun! mamma'slittle lamb of the world!... there now!" little chandler felt his cheeks suffused withshame and he stood back out of the lamplight. he listened while theparoxysm of the child's sobbing grew less and less; and tears of remorsestarted to his eyes. counterparts

the bell rang furiously and, when miss parkerwent to the tube, a furious voice called out in a piercing northof ireland accent: "send farrington here!" miss parker returned to her machine, sayingto a man who was writing at a desk: "mr. alleyne wants you upstairs." the man muttered "blast him!" under his breathand pushed back his chair to stand up. when he stood up he was talland of great bulk. he had a hanging face, dark wine-coloured, with faireyebrows and moustache:

his eyes bulged forward slightly and the whitesof them were dirty. he lifted up the counter and, passing by theclients, went out of the office with a heavy step. he went heavily upstairs until he came tothe second landing, where a door bore a brass plate with the inscriptionmr. alleyne. here he halted, puffing with labour and vexation,and knocked. the shrill voice cried: "come in!" the man entered mr. alleyne's room. simultaneouslymr. alleyne, a little

man wearing gold-rimmed glasses on a cleanshavenface, shot his head up over a pile of documents. the head itselfwas so pink and hairless it seemed like a large egg reposing on the papers.mr. alleyne did not lose a moment: "farrington? what is the meaning of this?why have i always to complain of you? may i ask you why you haven't madea copy of that contract between bodley and kirwan? i told you it mustbe ready by four o'clock." "but mr. shelley said, sir----" "mr. shelley said, sir.... kindly attend towhat i say and not to

what mr. shelley says, sir. you have alwayssome excuse or another for shirking work. let me tell you that if thecontract is not copied before this evening i'll lay the matter before mr.crosbie.... do you hear me now?" "yes, sir." "do you hear me now?... ay and another littlematter! i might as well be talking to the wall as talking to you. understandonce for all that you get a half an hour for your lunch and notan hour and a half. how many courses do you want, i'd like to know....do you mind me now?"

mr. alleyne bent his head again upon his pileof papers. the man stared fixedly at the polished skull which directedthe affairs of crosbie & alleyne, gauging its fragility. a spasm ofrage gripped his throat for a few moments and then passed, leaving afterit a sharp sensation of thirst. the man recognised the sensation andfelt that he must have a good night's drinking. the middle of the monthwas passed and, if he could get the copy done in time, mr. alleynemight give him an order on the cashier. he stood still, gazing fixedlyat the head upon the pile of papers. suddenly mr. alleyne began to upsetall the papers, searching

for something. then, as if he had been unawareof the man's presence till that moment, he shot up his head again,saying: "eh? are you going to stand there all day?upon my word, farrington, you take things easy!" "i was waiting to see..." "very good, you needn't wait to see. go downstairsand 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 ifthe contract was not copied by evening mr. crosbie would hear of the matter.

he returned to his desk in the lower officeand counted the sheets which remained to be copied. he took up his penand dipped it in the ink but he continued to stare stupidly at the lastwords he had written: in no case shall the said bernard bodley be... theevening was falling and in a few minutes they would be lighting the gas:then he could write. he felt that he must slake the thirst in histhroat. he stood up from his desk and, lifting the counter as before, passedout of the office. as he was passing out the chief clerk looked athim inquiringly. "it's all right, mr. shelley," said the man,pointing with his finger to

indicate 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 thelanding the man pulled a shepherd's plaid cap out of his pocket,put it on his head and ran quickly down the rickety stairs. from thestreet door he walked on furtively on the inner side of the path towardsthe corner and all at once dived into a doorway. he was now safein the dark snug of o'neill's shop, and filling up the little window thatlooked into the bar with his inflamed face, the colour of dark wine ordark 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 a gulp and asked for a caraway seed. he puthis penny on the counter and, leaving the curate to grope for it in thegloom, retreated out of the snug as furtively as he had entered it. darkness, accompanied by a thick fog, wasgaining upon the dusk of february and the lamps in eustace street hadbeen lit. the man went up by the houses until he reached the door ofthe office, wondering whether he could finish his copy in time. on the stairsa moist pungent odour of

perfumes saluted his nose: evidently missdelacour had come while he was out in o'neill's. he crammed his cap backagain into his pocket and re-entered the office, assuming an air ofabsentmindedness. "mr. alleyne has been calling for you," saidthe chief clerk severely. "where were you?" the man glanced at the two clients who werestanding at the counter as if to intimate that their presence preventedhim from answering. as the clients were both male the chief clerk allowedhimself a laugh. "i know that game," he said. "five times inone day is a little bit...

well, you better look sharp and get a copyof our correspondence in the delacour case for mr. alleyne." this address in the presence of the public,his run upstairs and the porter he had gulped down so hastily confusedthe man and, as he sat down at his desk to get what was required,he realised how hopeless was the task of finishing his copy of the contractbefore half past five. the dark damp night was coming and he longedto spend it in the bars, drinking with his friends amid the glare ofgas and the clatter of glasses. he got out the delacour correspondenceand passed out of

the office. he hoped mr. alleyne would notdiscover that the last two letters were missing. the moist pungent perfume lay all the wayup to mr. alleyne's room. miss delacour was a middle-aged woman of jewishappearance. mr. alleyne was said to be sweet on her or on her money. shecame to the office often and stayed a long time when she came. shewas sitting beside his desk now in an aroma of perfumes, smoothing thehandle of her umbrella and nodding the great black feather in her hat.mr. alleyne had swivelled his chair round to face her and thrown hisright foot jauntily upon

his left knee. the man put the correspondenceon the desk and bowed respectfully but neither mr. alleyne nor missdelacour took any notice of his bow. mr. alleyne tapped a finger onthe correspondence and then flicked it towards him as if to say: "that'sall right: you can go." the man returned to the lower office and satdown again at his desk. he stared intently at the incomplete phrase:in no case shall the said bernard bodley be... and thought how strangeit was that the last three words began with the same letter. the chiefclerk began to hurry miss parker, saying she would never have the letterstyped in time for post.

the man listened to the clicking of the machinefor a few minutes and then set to work to finish his copy. but hishead was not clear and his mind wandered away to the glare and rattleof the public-house. it was a night for hot punches. he struggled on withhis copy, but when the clock struck five he had still fourteen pages towrite. blast it! he couldn't finish it in time. he longed to execrate aloud,to bring his fist down on something violently. he was so enragedthat he wrote bernard bernard instead of bernard bodley and had to beginagain on a clean sheet. he felt strong enough to clear out the wholeoffice singlehanded. his

body ached to do something, to rush out andrevel in violence. all the indignities of his life enraged him....could he ask the cashier privately for an advance? no, the cashierwas no good, no damn good: he wouldn't give an advance.... he knew wherehe would meet the boys: leonard and o'halloran and nosey flynn. thebarometer of his emotional nature was set for a spell of riot. his imagination had so abstracted him thathis name was called twice before he answered. mr. alleyne and miss delacourwere standing outside the counter and all the clerks had turn roundin anticipation of

something. the man got up from his desk. mr.alleyne began a tirade of abuse, saying that two letters were missing.the man answered that he knew nothing about them, that he had madea faithful copy. the tirade continued: it was so bitter and violent thatthe man could hardly restrain his fist from descending upon thehead of the manikin before him. "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 approvalto the lady beside him,

"do you take me for a fool? do you think mean utter fool?" the man glanced from the lady's face to thelittle egg-shaped head and back again; and, almost before he was awareof it, his tongue had found a felicitous moment: "i don't think, sir," he said, "that that'sa fair question to put to me." there was a pause in the very breathing ofthe clerks. everyone was astounded (the author of the witticism noless than his neighbours) and miss delacour, who was a stout amiable person,began to smile broadly.

mr. alleyne flushed to the hue of a wild roseand his mouth twitched with a dwarf's passion. he shook his fistin the man's face till it seemed to vibrate like the knob of some electricmachine: "you impertinent ruffian! you impertinentruffian! i'll make short work of you! wait till you see! you'll apologiseto me for your impertinence or you'll quit the office instanter! you'llquit this, i'm telling you, or you'll apologise to me!" he stood in a doorway opposite the officewatching to see if the cashier would come out alone. all the clerks passedout and finally the cashier

came out with the chief clerk. it was no usetrying to say a word to him when he was with the chief clerk. the manfelt that his position was bad enough. he had been obliged to offer an abjectapology to mr. alleyne for his impertinence but he knew what a hornet'snest the office would be for him. he could remember the way in whichmr. alleyne had hounded little peake out of the office in order tomake room for his own nephew. he felt savage and thirsty and revengeful,annoyed with himself and with everyone else. mr. alleyne would never givehim an hour's rest; his life would be a hell to him. he had made a properfool of himself this time.

could he not keep his tongue in his cheek?but they had never pulled together from the first, he and mr. alleyne,ever since the day mr. alleyne had overheard him mimicking his northof ireland accent to amuse higgins and miss parker: that had been thebeginning of it. he might have tried higgins for the money, but surehiggins never had anything for himself. a man with two establishmentsto keep up, of course he couldn't.... he felt his great body again aching for thecomfort of the public-house. the fog had begun to chill him and he wonderedcould he touch pat in

o'neill's. he could not touch him for morethan a bob--and a bob was no use. yet he must get money somewhere orother: he had spent his last penny for the g.p. and soon it wouldbe too late for getting money anywhere. suddenly, as he was fingering hiswatch-chain, he thought of terry kelly's pawn-office in fleet street.that was the dart! why didn't he think of it sooner? he went through the narrow alley of templebar quickly, muttering to himself that they could all go to hell becausehe was going to have a good night of it. the clerk in terry kelly'ssaid a crown! but the

consignor held out for six shillings; andin the end the six shillings was allowed him literally. he came out ofthe pawn-office joyfully, making a little cylinder, of the coins betweenhis thumb and fingers. in westmoreland street the footpaths were crowdedwith young men and women returning from business and ragged urchinsran here and there yelling out the names of the evening editions. theman passed through the crowd, looking on the spectacle generally with proudsatisfaction and staring masterfully at the office-girls. his headwas full of the noises of tram-gongs and swishing trolleys and his nosealready sniffed the

curling fumes of punch. as he walked on hepreconsidered the terms in which he would narrate the incident to the boys: "so, i just looked at him--coolly, you know,and looked at her. then i looked back at him again--taking my time,you know. 'i don't think that that's a fair question to put to me,' saysi." nosey flynn was sitting up in his usual cornerof davy byrne's and, when he heard the story, he stood farrington ahalf-one, saying it was as smart a thing as ever he heard. farringtonstood a drink in his turn. after a while o'halloran and paddy leonardcame in and the story was

repeated to them. o'halloran stood tailorsof malt, hot, all round and told the story of the retort he had made tothe chief clerk when he was in callan's of fownes's street; but, as theretort was after the manner of the liberal shepherds in the eclogues,he had to admit that it was not as clever as farrington's retort. at thisfarrington told the boys to polish off that and have another. just as they were naming their poisons whoshould come in but higgins! of course he had to join in with the others.the men asked him to give his version of it, and he did so with greatvivacity for the sight of

five small hot whiskies was very exhilarating.everyone roared laughing when he showed the way in which mr.alleyne shook his fist in farrington's face. then he imitated farrington,saying, "and here was my nabs, as cool as you please," while farringtonlooked at the company out of his heavy dirty eyes, smiling and at timesdrawing forth stray drops of liquor from his moustache with the aidof his lower lip. when that round was over there was a pause.o'halloran had money but neither of the other two seemed to have any;so the whole party left the shop somewhat regretfully. at the cornerof duke street higgins and

nosey flynn bevelled off to the left whilethe other three turned back towards the city. rain was drizzling downon the cold streets and, when they reached the ballast office, farringtonsuggested the scotch house. the bar was full of men and loud with thenoise of tongues and glasses. the three men pushed past the whining match-sellersat the door and formed a little party at the corner of thecounter. they began to exchange stories. leonard introduced themto a young fellow named weathers who was performing at the tivolias an acrobat and knockabout artiste. farrington stood a drink all round.weathers said he would take

a small irish and apollinaris. farrington,who had definite notions of what was what, asked the boys would they havean apollinaris too; but the boys told tim to make theirs hot.the talk became theatrical. o'halloran stood a round and then farringtonstood another round, weathers protesting that the hospitality wastoo irish. he promised to get them in behind the scenes and introducethem to some nice girls. o'halloran said that he and leonard wouldgo, but that farrington wouldn't go because he was a married man;and farrington's heavy dirty eyes leered at the company in token that heunderstood he was being

chaffed. weathers made them all have justone little tincture at his expense and promised to meet them later onat mulligan's in poolbeg street. when the scotch house closed they went roundto mulligan's. they went into the parlour at the back and o'halloranordered small hot specials all round. they were all beginning to feelmellow. farrington was just standing another round when weathers cameback. much to farrington's relief he drank a glass of bitter this time.funds were getting low but they had enough to keep them going. presentlytwo young women with big

hats and a young man in a check suit camein and sat at a table close by. weathers saluted them and told the companythat they were out of the tivoli. farrington's eyes wandered at everymoment in the direction of one of the young women. there was somethingstriking in her appearance. an immense scarf of peacock-blue muslin waswound round her hat and knotted in a great bow under her chin; andshe wore bright yellow gloves, reaching to the elbow. farringtongazed admiringly at the plump arm which she moved very often and with muchgrace; and when, after a little time, she answered his gaze he admiredstill more her large dark

brown eyes. the oblique staring expressionin them fascinated him. she glanced at him once or twice and, when theparty 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 hopethat she would look back at him, but he was disappointed. he cursed hiswant of money and cursed all the rounds he had stood, particularly allthe whiskies and apolinaris which he had stood to weathers. if there wasone thing that he hated it was a sponge. he was so angry that he lostcount of the conversation of his friends.

when paddy leonard called him he found thatthey were talking about feats of strength. weathers was showing hisbiceps muscle to the company and boasting so much that the other two hadcalled on farrington to uphold the national honour. farrington pulledup his sleeve accordingly and showed his biceps muscle to the company.the two arms were examined and compared and finally it was agreed tohave a trial of strength. the table was cleared and the two men rested theirelbows on it, clasping hands. when paddy leonard said "go!" eachwas to try to bring down the other's hand on to the table. farringtonlooked very serious and

determined. the trial began. after about thirty secondsweathers brought his opponent's hand slowly down on to the table.farrington's dark wine-coloured face flushed darker still withanger and humiliation at having been defeated by such a stripling. "you're not to put the weight of your bodybehind it. play fair," he said. "who's not playing fair?" said the other. "come on again. the two best out of three."

the trial began again. the veins stood outon farrington's forehead, and the pallor of weathers' complexion changedto peony. their hands and arms trembled under the stress. aftera long struggle weathers again brought his opponent's hand slowly on to thetable. there was a murmur of applause from the spectators. the curate,who was standing beside the table, nodded his red head towards thevictor and said with stupid familiarity: "ah! that's the knack!" "what the hell do you know about it?" saidfarrington fiercely, turning

on the man. "what do you put in your gab for?" "sh, sh!" said o'halloran, observing the violentexpression of farrington's face. "pony up, boys. we'll havejust one little smahan more and then we'll be off." a very sullen-faced man stood at the cornerof o'connell bridge waiting for the little sandymount tram totake him home. he was full of smouldering anger and revengefulness. hefelt humiliated and discontented; he did not even feel drunk;and he had only twopence in his pocket. he cursed everything. he had donefor himself in the office,

pawned his watch, spent all his money; andhe had not even got drunk. he began to feel thirsty again and he longedto be back again in the hot reeking public-house. he had lost his reputationas a strong man, having been defeated twice by a mere boy. his heartswelled with fury and, when he thought of the woman in the big hat whohad brushed against him and said pardon! his fury nearly choked him. his tram let him down at shelbourne road andhe steered his great body along in the shadow of the wall of the barracks.he loathed returning to his home. when he went in by the side-doorhe found the kitchen empty

and the kitchen fire nearly out. he bawledupstairs: "ada! ada!" his wife was a little sharp-faced woman whobullied her husband when he was sober and was bullied by him when hewas drunk. they had five children. a little boy came running down thestairs. "who is that?" said the man, peering throughthe 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 leavingany dinner for me?" "yes, pa. i--" "light the lamp. what do you mean by havingthe place in darkness? are the other children in bed?" the man sat down heavily on one of the chairswhile the little boy lit the lamp. he began to mimic his son'sflat accent, saying half to himself: "at the chapel. at the chapel, ifyou please!" when the lamp

was lit he banged his fist on the table andshouted: "what's for my dinner?" "i'm going... to cook it, pa," said the littleboy. the man jumped up furiously and pointed tothe fire. "on that fire! you let the fire out! by god,i'll teach you to do that again!" he took a step to the door and seized thewalking-stick which was standing behind it. "i'll teach you to let the fire out!" he said,rolling up his sleeve in

order to give his arm free play. the little boy cried "o, pa!" and ran whimperinground the table, but the man followed him and caught him by thecoat. the little boy looked about 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 at him vigorously with the stick. "take that,you little whelp!" the boy uttered a squeal of pain as the stickcut his thigh. he clasped his hands together in the air and his voiceshook with fright. "o, pa!" he cried. "don't beat me, pa! andi'll... i'll say a hail mary

for 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 assoon as the women's tea was over and maria looked forward to her eveningout. the kitchen was spick and span: the cook said you could seeyourself in the big copper boilers. the fire was nice and bright andon one of the side-tables were four very big barmbracks. these barmbracksseemed uncut; but if you went closer you would see that they had been cutinto long thick even slices

and were ready to be handed round at tea.maria had cut them herself. maria was a very, very small person indeedbut she had a very long nose and a very long chin. she talked a littlethrough her nose, always soothingly: "yes, my dear," and "no, my dear."she was always sent for when the women quarrelled over their tubsand always succeeded in making peace. one day the matron had said to her: "maria, you are a veritable peace-maker!" and the sub-matron and two of the board ladieshad heard the compliment. and ginger mooney was always saying what shewouldn't do to the dummy

who had charge of the irons if it wasn't formaria. everyone was so fond of maria. the women would have their tea at six o'clockand she would be able to get away before seven. from ballsbridge tothe pillar, twenty minutes; from the pillar to drumcondra, twenty minutes;and twenty minutes to buy the things. she would be there before eight.she took out her purse with the silver clasps and read again the wordsa present from belfast. she was very fond of that purse because joe hadbrought it to her five years before when he and alphy had gone to belfaston a whit-monday trip. in

the purse were two half-crowns and some coppers.she would have five shillings clear after paying tram fare. whata nice evening they would have, all the children singing! only she hopedthat joe wouldn't come in drunk. he was so different when he took anydrink. often he had wanted her to go and live withthem; but she would have felt herself in the way (though joe's wifewas ever so nice with her) and she had become accustomed to the lifeof the laundry. joe was a good fellow. 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 gother that position in the dublin by lamplight laundry, and she likedit. she used to have such a bad opinion of protestants but now she thoughtthey were very nice people, a little quiet and serious, but stillvery nice people to live with. then she had her plants in the conservatoryand she liked looking after them. she had lovely ferns and wax-plantsand, whenever anyone came to visit her, she always gave the visitorone or two slips from her conservatory. there was one thing shedidn't like and that was the tracts on the walks; but the matron was sucha nice person to deal with,

so genteel. when the cook told her everything was readyshe went into the women's room and began to pull the big bell. in afew minutes the women began to come in by twos and threes, wiping theirsteaming hands in their petticoats and pulling down the sleeves oftheir blouses over their red steaming arms. they settled down before theirhuge mugs which the cook and the dummy filled up with hot tea, alreadymixed with milk and sugar in huge tin cans. maria superintended thedistribution of the barmbrack and saw that every woman got her four slices.there was a great deal of

laughing and joking during the meal. lizziefleming said maria was sure to get the ring and, though fleming had saidthat for so many hallow eves, maria had to laugh and say she didn'twant any ring or man either; and when she laughed her grey-green eyes sparkledwith disappointed shyness and the tip of her nose nearly metthe tip of her chin. then ginger mooney lifted her mug of tea and proposedmaria's health while all the other women clattered with their mugson the table, and said she was sorry she hadn't a sup of porter to drinkit in. and maria laughed again till the tip of her nose nearly metthe tip of her chin and till

her minute body nearly shook itself asunderbecause she knew that mooney meant well though, of course, she had thenotions of a common woman. but wasn't maria glad when the women had finishedtheir tea and the cook and the dummy had begun to clear away thetea-things! she went into her little bedroom and, remembering that thenext morning was a mass morning, changed the hand of the alarm fromseven to six. then she took off her working skirt and her house-bootsand laid her best skirt out on the bed and her tiny dress-boots beside thefoot of the bed. she changed her blouse too and, as she stood before themirror, she thought of how

she used to dress for mass on sunday morningwhen she was a young girl; and she looked with quaint affection at thediminutive body which she had so often adorned. in spite of its yearsshe found it a nice tidy little body. when she got outside the streets were shiningwith rain and she was glad of her old brown waterproof. the tram wasfull and she had to sit on the little stool at the end of the car, facingall the people, with her toes barely touching the floor. she arranged inher mind all she was going to do and thought how much better it was to beindependent and to have your

own money in your pocket. she hoped they wouldhave a nice evening. she was sure they would but she could not helpthinking what a pity it was alphy and joe were not speaking. they werealways falling out now but when they were boys together they used tobe the best of friends: but such was life. she got out of her tram at the pillar andferreted her way quickly among the crowds. she went into downes's cake-shopbut the shop was so full of people that it was a long time before shecould get herself attended to. she bought a dozen of mixed penny cakes,and at last came out of the

shop laden with a big bag. then she thoughtwhat else would she buy: she wanted to buy something really nice. theywould be sure to have plenty of apples and nuts. it was hard to know whatto buy and all she could think of was cake. she decided to buy someplumcake but downes's plumcake had not enough almond icing on topof it so she went over to a shop in henry street. here she was a longtime in suiting herself and the stylish young lady behind the counter,who was evidently a little annoyed by her, asked her was it wedding-cakeshe wanted to buy. that made maria blush and smile at the young lady;but the young lady took it

all very seriously and finally cut a thickslice of plumcake, parcelled it up and said: "two-and-four, please." she thought she would have to stand in thedrumcondra tram because none of the young men seemed to notice her butan elderly gentleman made room for her. he was a stout gentleman and he worea brown hard hat; he had a square red face and a greyish moustache.maria thought he was a colonel-looking gentleman and she reflectedhow much more polite he was than the young men who simply stared straightbefore them. the gentleman

began to chat with her about hallow eve andthe rainy weather. he supposed the bag was full of good things forthe little ones and said it was only right that the youngsters shouldenjoy themselves while they were young. maria agreed with him and favouredhim with demure nods and hems. he was very nice with her, and whenshe was getting out at the canal bridge she thanked him and bowed, andhe bowed to her and raised his hat and smiled agreeably, and while shewas going up along the terrace, bending her tiny head under the rain,she thought how easy it was to know a gentleman even when he has adrop taken.

everybody said: "o, here's maria!" when shecame to joe's house. joe was there, having come home from business, andall the children had their sunday dresses on. there were two big girlsin from next door and games were going on. maria gave the bag of cakesto the eldest boy, alphy, to divide and mrs. donnelly said it was too goodof her to bring such a big bag of cakes and made all the children say: "thanks, maria." but maria said she had brought something specialfor papa and mamma, something they would be sure to like, andshe began to look for her

plumcake. she tried in downes's bag and thenin the pockets of her waterproof and then on the hallstand but nowherecould she find it. then she asked all the children had any ofthem eaten it--by mistake, of course--but the children all said no and lookedas if they did not like to eat cakes if they were to be accused ofstealing. everybody had a solution for the mystery and mrs. donnellysaid it was plain that maria had left it behind her in the tram. maria,remembering how confused the gentleman with the greyish moustache had madeher, coloured with shame and vexation and disappointment. at the thoughtof the failure of her

little surprise and of the two and fourpenceshe had thrown away for nothing she nearly cried outright. but joe said it didn't matter and made hersit down by the fire. he was very nice with her. he told her all thatwent on in his office, repeating for her a smart answer which hehad made to the manager. maria did not understand why joe laughed so muchover the answer he had made but she said that the manager must have beena very overbearing person to deal with. joe said he wasn't so bad whenyou knew how to take him, that he was a decent sort so long as you didn'trub him the wrong way.

mrs. donnelly played the piano for the childrenand they danced and sang. then the two next-door girls handedround the nuts. nobody could find the nutcrackers and joe was nearly gettingcross over it and asked how did they expect maria to crack nuts withouta nutcracker. but maria said she didn't like nuts and that they weren'tto bother about her. then joe asked would she take a bottle ofstout and mrs. donnelly said there was port wine too in the house if shewould prefer that. maria said she would rather they didn't ask herto take anything: but joe insisted.

so maria let him have his way and they satby the fire talking over old times and maria thought she would put in agood word for alphy. but joe cried that god might strike him stone deadif ever he spoke a word to his brother again and maria said she was sorryshe had mentioned the matter. mrs. donnelly told her husband itwas a great shame for him to speak that way of his own flesh and bloodbut joe said that alphy was no brother of his and there was nearly beinga row on the head of it. but joe said he would not lose his temper on accountof the night it was and asked his wife to open some more stout.the two next-door girls

had arranged some hallow eve games and sooneverything was merry again. maria was delighted to see the children somerry and joe and his wife in such good spirits. the next-door girls putsome saucers on the table and then led the children up to the table,blindfold. one got the prayer-book and the other three got the water;and when one of the next-door girls got the ring mrs. donnellyshook her finger at the blushing girl as much as to say: o, i knowall about it! they insisted then on blindfolding maria and leading herup to the table to see what she would get; and, while they were puttingon the bandage, maria

laughed and laughed again till the tip ofher nose nearly met the tip of her chin. they led her up to the table amid laughingand joking and she put her hand out in the air as she was told to do.she moved her hand about here and there in the air and descended on oneof the saucers. she felt a soft wet substance with her fingers and wassurprised that nobody spoke or took off her bandage. there was a pausefor a few seconds; and then a great deal of scuffling and whispering.somebody said something about the garden, and at last mrs. donnelly saidsomething very cross to one

of the next-door girls and told her to throwit out at once: that was no play. maria understood that it was wrong thattime and so she had to do it over again: and this time she got the prayer-book. after that mrs. donnelly played miss mccloud'sreel for the children and joe made maria take a glass of wine. soonthey were all quite merry again and mrs. donnelly said maria would entera convent before the year was out because she had got the prayer-book.maria had never seen joe so nice to her as he was that night, so fullof pleasant talk and reminiscences. she said they were all verygood to her.

at last the children grew tired and sleepyand joe asked maria would she not sing some little song before she went,one of the old songs. mrs. donnelly said "do, please, maria!" and somaria had to get up and stand beside the piano. mrs. donnelly bade the childrenbe quiet and listen to maria's song. then she played the preludeand said "now, maria!" and maria, blushing very much began to sing ina tiny quavering voice. she sang i dreamt that i dwelt, and when she cameto the second verse she sang again: i dreamt that i dwelt in marble hallswith vassals and serfs at my side,

and of all who assembled within those wallsthat i was the hope and the pride. i had riches too great to count; could boastof 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 her song joe was very much moved. he said thatthere was no time like the long ago and no music for him like poor oldbalfe, whatever other people might say; and his eyes filled up so muchwith tears that he could not find what he was looking for and in the endhe had to ask his wife to tell him where the corkscrew was.

a painful case mr. james duffy lived in chapelizod becausehe wished to live as far as possible from the city of which he was a citizenand because he found all the other suburbs of dublin mean, modernand pretentious. he lived in an old sombre house and from his windowshe could look into the disused distillery or upwards along the shallowriver on which dublin is built. the lofty walls of his uncarpeted roomwere free from pictures. he had himself bought every article of furniturein the room: a black

iron bedstead, an iron washstand, four canechairs, a clothes-rack, a coal-scuttle, a fender and irons and a squaretable on which lay a double desk. a bookcase had been made in analcove by means of shelves of white wood. the bed was clothed with whitebedclothes and a black and scarlet rug covered the foot. a littlehand-mirror hung above the washstand and during the day a white-shadedlamp stood as the sole ornament of the mantelpiece. the books onthe white wooden shelves were arranged from below upwards according to bulk.a complete wordsworth stood at one end of the lowest shelf and acopy of the maynooth

catechism, sewn into the cloth cover of anotebook, stood at one end of the top shelf. writing materials were alwayson the desk. in the desk lay a manuscript translation of hauptmann'smichael kramer, the stage directions of which were written in purpleink, and a little sheaf of papers held together by a brass pin. in thesesheets a sentence was inscribed from time to time and, in an ironicalmoment, the headline of an advertisement for bile beans had been pastedon to the first sheet. on lifting the lid of the desk a faint fragranceescaped--the fragrance of new cedarwood pencils or of a bottle ofgum or of an overripe apple

which might have been left there and forgotten. mr. duffy abhorred anything which betokenedphysical or mental disorder. a mediaeval doctor would have called him saturnine.his face, which carried the entire tale of his years, wasof the brown tint of dublin streets. on his long and rather large headgrew dry black hair and a tawny moustache did not quite cover an unamiablemouth. his cheekbones also gave his face a harsh character; butthere was no harshness in the eyes which, looking at the world from undertheir tawny eyebrows, gave the impression of a man ever alert to greeta redeeming instinct in

others but often disappointed. he lived ata little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtfulside-glances. he had an odd autobiographical habit which led him to composein his mind from time to time a short sentence about himself containinga subject in the third person and a predicate in the past tense.he never gave alms to beggars and walked firmly, carrying a stout hazel. he had been for many years cashier of a privatebank in baggot street. every morning he came in from chapelizod bytram. at midday he went to dan burke's and took his lunch--a bottleof lager beer and a small

trayful of arrowroot biscuits. at four o'clockhe was set free. he dined in an eating-house in george's street wherehe felt himself safe from the society of dublin's gilded youth and wherethere was a certain plain honesty in the bill of fare. his eveningswere spent either before his landlady's piano or roaming about the outskirtsof the city. his liking for mozart's music brought him sometimes toan opera or a concert: these were the only dissipations of his life. he had neither companions nor friends, churchnor creed. he lived his spiritual life without any communion withothers, visiting his relatives

at christmas and escorting them to the cemeterywhen they died. he performed these two social duties for olddignity's sake but conceded nothing further to the conventions which regulatethe civic life. he allowed himself to think that in certain circumstanceshe would rob his hank but, as these circumstances neverarose, his life rolled out evenly--an adventureless tale. one evening he found himself sitting besidetwo ladies in the rotunda. the house, thinly peopled and silent, gavedistressing prophecy of failure. the lady who sat next him lookedround at the deserted house

once or twice and then said: "what a pity there is such a poor house tonight!it's so hard on people to have to sing to empty benches." he took the remark as an invitation to talk.he was surprised that she seemed so little awkward. while they talkedhe tried to fix her permanently in his memory. when he learnedthat the young girl beside her was her daughter he judged her to be ayear or so younger than himself. her face, which must have been handsome,had remained intelligent. it was an oval face with stronglymarked features. the eyes

were very dark blue and steady. their gazebegan with a defiant note but was confused by what seemed a deliberateswoon of the pupil into the iris, revealing for an instant a temperamentof great sensibility. the pupil reasserted itself quickly, this half-disclosednature fell again under the reign of prudence, and her astrakhanjacket, moulding a bosom of a certain fullness, struck the note ofdefiance more definitely. he met her again a few weeks afterwards ata concert in earlsfort terrace and seized the moments when her daughter'sattention was diverted to become intimate. she alluded onceor twice to her husband

but her tone was not such as to make the allusiona warning. her name was mrs. sinico. her husband's great-great-grandfatherhad come from leghorn. her husband was captain of a mercantileboat plying between dublin and holland; and they had one child. meeting her a third time by accident he foundcourage to make an appointment. she came. this was the firstof many meetings; they met always in the evening and chose the most quietquarters for their walks together. mr. duffy, however, had a distastefor underhand ways and, finding that they were compelled to meet stealthily,he forced her to

ask him to her house. captain sinico encouragedhis visits, thinking that his daughter's hand was in question.he had dismissed his wife so sincerely from his gallery of pleasures thathe did not suspect that anyone else would take an interest in her.as the husband was often away and the daughter out giving music lessonsmr. duffy had many opportunities of enjoying the lady's society.neither he nor she had had any such adventure before and neither wasconscious of any incongruity. little by little he entangled his thoughtswith hers. he lent her books, provided her with ideas, shared his intellectuallife with her. she

listened to all. sometimes in return for his theories she gaveout some fact of her own life. with almost maternal solicitude sheurged him to let his nature open to the full: she became his confessor.he told her that for some time he had assisted at the meetings of anirish socialist party where he had felt himself a unique figure amidsta score of sober workmen in a garret lit by an inefficient oil-lamp. whenthe party had divided into three sections, each under its own leaderand in its own garret, he had discontinued his attendances. the workmen'sdiscussions, he said,

were too timorous; the interest they tookin the question of wages was inordinate. he felt that they were hard-featuredrealists and that they resented an exactitude which was the produceof a leisure not within their reach. no social revolution, he toldher, would be likely to strike dublin for some centuries. she asked him why did he not write out histhoughts. for what, he asked her, with careful scorn. to compete with phrasemongers,incapable of thinking consecutively for sixty seconds?to submit himself to the criticisms of an obtuse middle class whichentrusted its morality to

policemen and its fine arts to impresarios? he went often to her little cottage outsidedublin; often they spent their evenings alone. little by little, astheir thoughts entangled, they spoke of subjects less remote. her companionshipwas like a warm soil about an exotic. many times she allowedthe dark to fall upon them, refraining from lighting the lamp. thedark discreet room, their isolation, the music that still vibrated intheir ears united them. this union exalted him, wore away the roughedges of his character, emotionalised his mental life. sometimes hecaught himself listening to

the sound of his own voice. he thought thatin her eyes he would ascend to an angelical stature; and, as he attachedthe fervent nature of his companion more and more closely to him, heheard the strange impersonal voice which he recognised as his own, insistingon the soul's incurable loneliness. we cannot give ourselves, it said:we are our own. the end of these discourses was that one night duringwhich she had shown every sign of unusual excitement, mrs. sinico caughtup his hand passionately and pressed it to her cheek. mr. duffy was very much surprised. her interpretationof his words

disillusioned him. he did not visit her fora week, then he wrote to her asking her to meet him. as he did not wishtheir last interview to be troubled by the influence of their ruinedconfessional they met in a little cakeshop near the parkgate. it wascold autumn weather but in spite of the cold they wandered up and downthe roads of the park for nearly three hours. they agreed to break offtheir intercourse: every bond, he said, is a bond to sorrow. when theycame out of the park they walked in silence towards the tram; but hereshe began to tremble so violently that, fearing another collapseon her part, he bade her

good-bye quickly and left her. a few dayslater he received a parcel containing his books and music. four years passed. mr. duffy returned to hiseven way of life. his room still bore witness of the orderliness of hismind. some new pieces of music encumbered the music-stand in the lowerroom and on his shelves stood two volumes by nietzsche: thus spakezarathustra and the gay science. he wrote seldom in the sheaf of paperswhich lay in his desk. one of his sentences, written two months afterhis last interview with mrs. sinico, read: love between man and manis impossible because there

must not be sexual intercourse and friendshipbetween man and woman is impossible because there must be sexual intercourse.he kept away from concerts lest he should meet her. his fatherdied; the junior partner of the bank retired. and still every morninghe went into the city by tram and every evening walked home from thecity after having dined moderately in george's street and read theevening paper for dessert. one evening as he was about to put a morselof corned beef and cabbage into his mouth his hand stopped. his eyesfixed themselves on a paragraph in the evening paper which he hadpropped against the

water-carafe. he replaced the morsel of foodon his plate and read the paragraph attentively. then he drank a glassof water, pushed his plate to one side, doubled the paper down beforehim between his elbows and read the paragraph over and over again. thecabbage began to deposit a cold white grease on his plate. the girl cameover to him to ask was his dinner not properly cooked. he said itwas very good and ate a few mouthfuls of it with difficulty. then he paidhis bill and went out. he walked along quickly through the novembertwilight, his stout hazel stick striking the ground regularly, the fringeof the buff mail peeping

out of a side-pocket of his tight reefer overcoat.on the lonely road which leads from the parkgate to chapelizodhe slackened his pace. his stick struck the ground less emphaticallyand his breath, issuing irregularly, almost with a sighing sound,condensed in the wintry air. when he reached his house he went up at onceto his bedroom and, taking the paper from his pocket, read the paragraphagain by the failing light of the window. he read it not aloud, but movinghis lips as a priest does when he reads the prayers secreto. thiswas the paragraph: death of a lady at sydney paradea painful case

today at the city of dublin hospital the deputycoroner (in the absence of mr. leverett) held an inquest on the bodyof mrs. emily sinico, aged forty-three years, who was killed at sydneyparade station yesterday evening. the evidence showed that the deceasedlady, while attempting to cross the line, was knocked down by the engineof the ten o'clock slow train from kingstown, thereby sustaining injuriesof the head and right side which led to her death. james lennon, driver of the engine, statedthat he had been in the employment of the railway company for fifteenyears. on hearing

the guard's whistle he set the train in motionand a second or two afterwards brought it to rest in responseto loud cries. the train was going slowly. p. dunne, railway porter, stated that as thetrain was about to start he observed a woman attempting to cross the lines.he ran towards her and shouted, but, before he could reach her, shewas caught by the buffer of the engine and fell to the ground. a juror. "you saw the lady fall?" witness. "yes."

police sergeant croly deposed that when hearrived he found the deceased lying on the platform apparently dead. hehad the body taken to the waiting-room pending the arrival of the ambulance. constable 57e corroborated. dr. halpin, assistant house surgeon of thecity of dublin hospital, stated that the deceased had two lower ribsfractured and had sustained severe contusions of the right shoulder. theright side of the head had been injured in the fall. the injurieswere not sufficient to have caused death in a normal person. death,in his opinion, had been

probably due to shock and sudden failure ofthe heart's action. mr. h. b. patterson finlay, on behalf of therailway company, expressed his deep regret at the accident. the companyhad always taken every precaution to prevent people crossing thelines except by the bridges, both by placing notices in every station andby the use of patent spring gates at level crossings. the deceased hadbeen in the habit of crossing the lines late at night from platform to platformand, in view of certain other circumstances of the case, hedid not think the railway officials were to blame.

captain sinico, of leoville, sydney parade,husband of the deceased, also gave evidence. he stated that the deceasedwas his wife. he was not in dublin at the time of the accidentas he had arrived only that morning from rotterdam. they had been marriedfor twenty-two years and had lived happily until about two years agowhen his wife began to be rather intemperate in her habits. miss mary sinico said that of late her motherhad been in the habit of going out at night to buy spirits. she,witness, had often tried to reason with her mother and had induced herto join a league. she was not

at home until an hour after the accident.the jury returned a verdict in accordance with the medical evidence andexonerated lennon from all blame. the deputy coroner said it was a most painfulcase, and expressed great sympathy with captain sinico and his daughter.he urged on the railway company to take strong measures to preventthe possibility of similar accidents in the future. no blame attachedto anyone. mr. duffy raised his eyes from the paper andgazed out of his window on the cheerless evening landscape. the riverlay quiet beside the empty

distillery and from time to time a light appearedin some house on the lucan road. what an end! the whole narrativeof her death revolted him and it revolted him to think that he had everspoken to her of what he held sacred. the threadbare phrases, the inaneexpressions of sympathy, the cautious words of a reporter won overto conceal the details of a commonplace vulgar death attacked his stomach.not merely had she degraded herself; she had degraded him. hesaw the squalid tract of her vice, miserable and malodorous. his soul'scompanion! he thought of the hobbling wretches whom he had seen carryingcans and bottles to

be filled by the barman. just god, what anend! evidently she had been unfit to live, without any strength of purpose,an easy prey to habits, one of the wrecks on which civilisation hasbeen reared. but that she could have sunk so low! was it possible hehad deceived himself so utterly about her? he remembered her outburstof that night and interpreted it in a harsher sense than hehad ever done. he had no difficulty now in approving of the coursehe had taken. as the light failed and his memory began towander he thought her hand touched his. the shock which had first attackedhis stomach was now

attacking his nerves. he put on his overcoatand hat quickly and went out. the cold air met him on the threshold;it crept into the sleeves of his coat. when he came to the public-houseat chapelizod bridge he went in and ordered a hot punch. the proprietor served him obsequiously butdid not venture to talk. there were five or six workingmen in the shopdiscussing the value of a gentleman's estate in county kildare theydrank at intervals from their huge pint tumblers and smoked, spitting oftenon the floor and sometimes dragging the sawdust over their spits withtheir heavy boots. mr. duffy

sat on his stool and gazed at them, withoutseeing or hearing them. after a while they went out and he calledfor another punch. he sat a long time over it. the shop was very quiet.the proprietor sprawled on the counter reading the herald and yawning.now and again a tram was heard swishing along the lonely road outside. as he sat there, living over his life withher and evoking alternately the two images in which he now conceived her,he realised that she was dead, that she had ceased to exist, that shehad become a memory. he began to feel ill at ease. he asked himselfwhat else could he have

done. he could not have carried on a comedyof deception with her; he could not have lived with her openly. he haddone what seemed to him best. how was he to blame? now that she wasgone he understood how lonely her life must have been, sitting nightafter night alone in that room. 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 theshop. the night was cold and gloomy. he entered the park by the first gateand walked along under the gaunt trees. he walked through the bleak alleyswhere they had walked

four years before. she seemed to be near himin the darkness. at moments he seemed to feel her voice touch his ear,her hand touch his. he stood still to listen. why had he withheld lifefrom her? why had he sentenced her to death? he felt his moral nature fallingto pieces. when he gained the crest of the magazine hillhe halted and looked along the river towards dublin, the lightsof which burned redly and hospitably in the cold night. he looked downthe slope and, at the base, in the shadow of the wall of the park, hesaw some human figures lying. those venal and furtive loves filled him withdespair. he gnawed the

rectitude of his life; he felt that he hadbeen outcast from life's feast. one human being had seemed to lovehim and he had denied her life and happiness: he had sentenced her to ignominy,a death of shame. he knew that the prostrate creatures down bythe wall were watching him and wished him gone. no one wanted him; he wasoutcast from life's feast. he turned his eyes to the grey gleaming river,winding along towards dublin. beyond the river he saw a goods trainwinding out of kingsbridge station, like a worm with a fiery head windingthrough the darkness, obstinately and laboriously. it passed slowlyout of sight; but still

he heard in his ears the laborious drone ofthe engine reiterating the syllables of her name. he turned back the way he had come, the rhythmof the engine pounding in his ears. he began to doubt the realityof what memory told him. he halted under a tree and allowed the rhythmto die away. he could not feel her near him in the darkness nor hervoice touch his ear. he waited for some minutes listening. he couldhear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. he listened again: perfectlysilent. he felt that he was alone.

ivy day in the committee room old jack raked the cinders together with apiece of cardboard and spread them judiciously over the whitening dome ofcoals. when the dome was thinly covered his face lapsed into darknessbut, as he set himself to fan the fire again, his crouching shadow ascendedthe opposite wall and his face slowly re-emerged into light. itwas an old man's face, very bony and hairy. the moist blue eyes blinkedat the fire and the moist mouth fell open at times, munching once ortwice mechanically when it closed. when the cinders had caught helaid the piece of cardboard

against the wall, sighed and said: "that's better now, mr. o'connor." mr. o'connor, a grey-haired young man, whoseface was disfigured by many blotches and pimples, had just brought thetobacco for a cigarette into a shapely cylinder but when spoken tohe undid his handiwork meditatively. then he began to roll the tobaccoagain meditatively and after a moment's thought decided to lick thepaper. "did mr. tierney say when he'd be back?" heasked in a husky falsetto. "he didn't say."

mr. o'connor put his cigarette into his mouthand began search his pockets. he took out a pack of thin pasteboardcards. "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 whatwas printed on it: municipal elections---------- royal exchange ward---------- mr. richard j. tierney, p.l.g., respectfullysolicits the favour of your vote and influence at the coming electionin the royal exchange ward.

mr. o'connor had been engaged by tierney'sagent to canvass one part of the ward but, as the weather was inclementand his boots let in the wet, he spent a great part of the day sitting bythe fire in the committee room in wicklow street with jack, the oldcaretaker. they had been sitting thus since the short day had growndark. it was the sixth of october, dismal and cold out of doors. mr. o'connor tore a strip off the card and,lighting it, lit his cigarette. as he did so the flame lit up aleaf of dark glossy ivy the lapel of his coat. the old man watched himattentively and then, taking

up the piece of cardboard again, began tofan the fire slowly while his companion smoked. "ah, yes," he said, continuing, "it's hardto know what way to bring up children. now who'd think he'd turn outlike that! i sent him to the christian brothers and i done what i couldfor him, and there he goes boosing about. i tried to make him somewaydecent." he replaced the cardboard wearily. "only i'm an old man now i'd change his tunefor him. i'd take the stick to his back and beat him while i could standover him--as i done many

a time before. the mother, you know, she cockshim up with this and that...." "that's what ruins children," said mr. o'connor. "to be sure it is," said the old man. "andlittle thanks you get for it, only impudence. he takes th'upper hand ofme whenever he sees i've a sup taken. what's the world coming to whensons speaks that way to their father?" "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 bowsyever since he left school? 'i won't keep you,' i says. 'you mustget 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, andthe old man fell silent, gazing into the fire. someone opened the doorof the room and called "hello! is this a freemasons' meeting?" "who's that?" said the old man. "what are you doing in the dark?" asked avoice.

"is that you, hynes?" asked mr. o'connor. "yes. what are you doing in the dark?" saidmr. hynes. advancing into the light of the fire. he was a tall, slender young man with a lightbrown moustache. imminent little drops of rain hung at the brim of hishat and the collar of his jacket-coat was turned up. "well, mat," he said to mr. o'connor, "howgoes it?" mr. o'connor shook his head. the old man leftthe hearth and, after stumbling about the room returned with twocandlesticks which he thrust

one after the other into the fire and carriedto the table. a denuded room came into view and the fire lost allits cheerful colour. the walls of the room were bare except for a copy ofan election address. in the middle of the room was a small table on whichpapers were heaped. mr. hynes leaned against the mantelpiece andasked: "has he paid you yet?" "not yet," said mr. o'connor. "i hope to godhe'll not leave us in the lurch tonight." mr. hynes laughed.

"o, he'll pay you. never fear," he said. "i hope he'll look smart about it if he meansbusiness," said mr. o'connor. "what do you think, jack?" said mr. hynessatirically to the old man. the old man returned to his seat by the fire,saying: "it isn't but he has it, anyway. not likethe other tinker." "what other tinker?" said mr. hynes. "colgan," said the old man scornfully. "it is because colgan's a working-man yousay that? what's the

difference between a good honest bricklayerand a publican--eh? hasn't the working-man as good a right to be in thecorporation as anyone else--ay, and a better right than those shoneensthat are always hat in hand before any fellow with a handle to hisname? 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-slidingabout him. he goes in to represent the labour classes. this fellowyou're working for only wants to get some job or other."

"of course, the working-classes should berepresented," said the old man. "the working-man," said mr. hynes, "gets allkicks and no halfpence. but it's labour produces everything. the working-manis not looking for fat jobs for his sons and nephews and cousins.the working-man is not going to drag the honour of dublin in the mud toplease a german monarch." "how's that?" said the old man. "don't you know they want to present an addressof welcome to edward rex if he comes here next year? what do wewant kowtowing to a foreign

king?" "our man won't vote for the address," saidmr. o'connor. "he goes in on the nationalist ticket." "won't he?" said mr. hynes. "wait till yousee whether he will or not. i know him. is it tricky dicky tierney?" "by god! perhaps you're right, joe," saidmr. o'connor. "anyway, i wish he'd turn up with the spondulics." the three men fell silent. the old man beganto rake more cinders together. mr. hynes took off his hat, shookit and then turned down the

collar of his coat, displaying, as he didso, an ivy leaf in the lapel. "if this man was alive," he said, pointingto the leaf, "we'd have no talk of an address of welcome." "that's true," said mr. o'connor. "musha, god be with them times!" said theold man. "there was some life in it then." the room was silent again. then a bustlinglittle man with a snuffling nose and very cold ears pushed in the door.he walked over quickly to the fire, rubbing his hands as if he intendedto produce a spark from

them. "no money, boys," he said. "sit down here, mr. henchy," said the oldman, offering him his chair. "o, don't stir, jack, don't stir," said mr.henchy he nodded curtly to mr. hynes and sat downon the chair which the old man vacated. "did you serve aungier street?" he asked mr.o'connor. "yes," said mr. o'connor, beginning to searchhis pockets for memoranda. "did you call on grimes?"

"i did." "well? how does he stand?" "he wouldn't promise. he said: 'i won't tellanyone what way i'm going to vote.' but i think he'll be all right." "why so?" "he asked me who the nominators were; andi told him. i mentioned father burke's name. i think it'll be all right." mr. henchy began to snuffle and to rub hishands over the fire at a terrific speed. then he said:

"for the love of god, jack, bring us a bitof coal. there must be some left." the old man went out of the room. "it's no go," said mr. henchy, shaking hishead. "i asked the little shoeboy, but he said: 'oh, now, mr. henchy,when i see work going on properly 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," saidmr. henchy. "he hasn't got

those little pigs' eyes for nothing. blasthis soul! couldn't he pay up like a man instead of: 'o, now, mr. henchy,i must speak to mr. fanning.... i've spent a lot of money'? meanlittle school-boy of hell! i suppose he forgets the time his little oldfather kept the hand-me-down shop in mary's lane." "but is that a fact?" asked mr. o'connor. "god, yes," said mr. henchy. "did you neverhear that? and the men used to go in on sunday morning before thehouses were open to buy a waistcoat or a trousers--moya! but trickydicky's little old father

always had a tricky little black bottle upin a corner. do you mind now? that's that. that's where he first saw thelight." the old man returned with a few lumps of coalwhich he placed here and there on the fire. "thats a nice how-do-you-do," said mr. o'connor."how does he expect us to work for him if he won't stump up?" "i can't help it," said mr. henchy. "i expectto find the bailiffs in the hall when i go home." mr. hynes laughed and, shoving himself awayfrom the mantelpiece with

the aid of his shoulders, made ready to leave. "it'll be all right when king eddie comes,"he said. "well boys, i'm off for the present. see you later. 'bye, 'bye." he went out of the room slowly. neither mr.henchy nor the old man said anything, but, just as the door was closing,mr. o'connor, who had been staring moodily into the fire, called outsuddenly: "'bye, joe." mr. henchy waited a few moments and then noddedin the direction of the door.

"tell me," he said across the fire, "whatbrings our friend in here? what does he want?" "'usha, poor joe!" said mr. o'connor, throwingthe end of his cigarette into the fire, "he's hard up, like the restof us." mr. henchy snuffled vigorously and spat socopiously that he nearly put out the fire, which uttered a hissing protest. "to tell you my private and candid opinion,"he said, "i think he's a man from the other camp. he's a spy of colgan's,if you ask me. just go round and try and find out how they're gettingon. they won't suspect

you. do you twig?" "ah, poor joe is a decent skin," said mr.o'connor. "his father was a decent, respectable man,"mr. henchy admitted. "poor old larry hynes! many a good turn he did inhis day! but i'm greatly afraid our friend is not nineteen carat. damnit, i can understand a fellow being hard up, but what i can't understandis a fellow sponging. couldn't he have some spark of manhood abouthim?" "he doesn't get a warm welcome from me whenhe comes," said the old man. "let him work for his own side and not comespying around here."

"i don't know," said mr. o'connor dubiously,as he took out cigarette-papers and tobacco. "i think joehynes is a straight man. he's a clever chap, too, with the pen. doyou remember that thing he wrote...?" "some of these hillsiders and fenians area bit too clever if you ask me," said mr. henchy. "do you know what my privateand candid opinion is about some of those little jokers? i believehalf of them are in the pay of the castle." "there's no knowing," said the old man.

"o, but i know it for a fact," said mr. henchy."they're castle hacks.... i don't say hynes.... no, damn it,i think he's a stroke above that.... but there's a certain little noblemanwith a cock-eye--you know the patriot i'm alluding to?" mr. o'connor nodded. "there's a lineal descendant of major sirrfor you if you like! o, the heart's blood of a patriot! that's a fellownow that'd sell his country for fourpence--ay--and go down on his bendedknees and thank the almighty 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 apoor actor appeared in the doorway. his black clothes were tightly buttonedon his short body and it was impossible to say whether he worea clergyman's collar or a layman's, because the collar of his shabbyfrock-coat, the uncovered buttons of which reflected the candlelight,was turned up about his neck. he wore a round hat of hard black felt.his face, shining with raindrops, had the appearance of damp yellowcheese save where two rosy

spots indicated the cheekbones. he openedhis very long mouth suddenly to express disappointment and at the sametime opened wide his very bright blue eyes to express pleasure and surprise. "o father keon!" said mr. henchy, jumpingup from his chair. "is that you? come in!" "o, no, no, no!" said father keon quickly,pursing his lips as if he were addressing a child. "won't you come in and sit down?" "no, no, no!" said father keon, speaking ina 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 in and sit down a minute?" "no, no, thank you. it was just a little businessmatter," said father keon. "thank you, indeed." he retreated from the doorway and mr. henchy,seizing one of the candlesticks, went to the door to light himdownstairs. "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 andput it on the table. he sat down again at the fire. there was silencefor a few moments. "tell me, john," said mr. o'connor, lightinghis cigarette with another pasteboard 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's together. is he a priest at all?" "mmmyes, i believe so.... i think he's whatyou call a black sheep. we haven't many of them, thank god! but wehave a few.... he's an unfortunate 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 orinstitution or----" "no," said mr. henchy, "i think he's travellingon his own account.... god forgive me," he added, "i thought he wasthe dozen of stout." "is there any chance of a drink itself?" askedmr. o'connor. "i'm dry too," said the old man. "i asked that little shoeboy three times,"said mr. henchy, "would he send up a dozen of stout. i asked him againnow, but he was leaning on the counter in his shirt-sleeves havinga deep goster with alderman cowley."

"why didn't you remind him?" said mr. o'connor. "well, i couldn't go over while he was talkingto alderman cowley. i just waited till i caught his eye, and said:'about that little matter i was speaking to you about....' 'that'll beall right, mr. h.,' he said. yerra, sure the little hop-o'-my-thumb hasforgotten all about it." "there's some deal on in that quarter," saidmr. o'connor thoughtfully. "i saw the three of them hard at it yesterdayat suffolk street corner." "i think i know the little game they're at,"said mr. henchy. "you must owe the city fathers money nowadays if youwant to be made lord mayor.

then they'll make you lord mayor. by god!i'm thinking seriously of becoming a city father myself. what do youthink? would i do for the job?" 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 apowdered wig--eh?" "and make me your private secretary, john." "yes. and i'll make father keon my privatechaplain. we'll have a family

party." "faith, mr. henchy," said the old man, "you'dkeep up better style than some of them. i was talking one day to oldkeegan, the porter. 'and how do you like your new master, pat?' saysi to him. 'you haven't much entertaining now,' says i. 'entertaining!'says he. 'he'd live on the smell of an oil-rag.' and do you know whathe told me? now, i declare to god i didn't believe him." "what?" said mr. henchy and mr. o'connor. "he told me: 'what do you think of a lordmayor of dublin sending out

for a pound of chops for his dinner? how'sthat for high living?' says he. 'wisha! wisha,' says i. 'a pound of chops,'says he, 'coming into the mansion house.' 'wisha!' says i, 'whatkind of people is going at all 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, walkingin sideways and depositing a basket on the floor with a noise of shakenbottles. the old man helped the boy to transfer thebottles from the basket to

the table and counted the full tally. afterthe transfer the boy put his basket on his arm and asked: "any bottles?" "what bottles?" said the old man. "won't you let us drink them first?" saidmr. henchy. "i was told to ask for the bottles." "come back tomorrow," said the old man. "here, boy!" said mr. henchy, "will you runover to o'farrell's and ask him to lend us a corkscrew--for mr. henchy,say. tell him we won't keep

it a minute. leave the basket there." the boy went out and mr. henchy began to rubhis hands cheerfully, saying: "ah, well, he's not so bad after all. he'sas good as his word, anyhow." "there's no tumblers," said the old man. "o, don't let that trouble you, jack," saidmr. henchy. "many's the good man 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, "onlyfanning has such a loan of

him. he means well, you know, in his own tinpotway." the boy came back with the corkscrew. theold man opened three bottles and 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 boytook the bottle and said:

"here's my best respects, sir," to mr. henchy,drank the contents, put the bottle back on the table and wiped hismouth with his sleeve. then he took up the corkscrew and went out of thedoor sideways, muttering some 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 bottleswhich he had opened and the men drank from them simultaneously. afterhaving drunk each placed his bottle on the mantelpiece within hand's reachand drew in a long breath

of satisfaction. "well, i did a good day's work today," saidmr. henchy, after a pause. "that so, john?" "yes. i got him one or two sure things indawson street, crofton and myself. between ourselves, you know, crofton(he's a decent chap, of course), but he's not worth a damn as a canvasser.he hasn't a word to throw to a dog. he stands and looks atthe people while i do the talking." here two men entered the room. one of themwas a very fat man whose blue

serge clothes seemed to be in danger of fallingfrom his sloping figure. he had a big face which resembled a youngox's face in expression, staring blue eyes and a grizzled moustache.the other man, who was much younger and frailer, had a thin, clean-shavenface. he wore a very high double collar and a wide-brimmed bowler hat. "hello, crofton!" said mr. henchy to the fatman. "talk of the devil..." "where did the boose come from?" asked theyoung man. "did the cow calve?" "o, of course, lyons spots the drink firstthing!" said mr. o'connor,

laughing. "is that the way you chaps canvass," saidmr. lyons, "and crofton and i out in the cold and rain looking for votes?" "why, blast your soul," said mr. henchy, "i'dget more votes in five minutes 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'sno corkscrew?" "wait now, wait now!" said mr. henchy, gettingup quickly. "did you ever see this little trick?"

he took two bottles from the table and, carryingthem to the fire, put them on the hob. then he sat down again bythe fire and took another drink from his bottle. mr. lyons sat on theedge of the table, pushed his hat towards the nape of his neck and beganto swing his legs. "which is my bottle?" he asked. "this lad," said mr. henchy. mr. crofton sat down on a box and looked fixedlyat the other bottle on the hob. he was silent for two reasons. thefirst reason, sufficient in itself, was that he had nothing to say; thesecond reason was that

he considered his companions beneath him.he had been a canvasser for wilkins, the conservative, but when the conservativeshad withdrawn their man and, choosing the lesser of twoevils, given their support to the nationalist candidate, he had been engagedto work for mr. tiemey. in a few minutes an apologetic "pok!" washeard as the cork flew out of mr. lyons' bottle. mr. lyons jumped offthe table, went to the fire, took his bottle and carried it back to thetable. "i was just telling them, crofton," said mr.henchy, "that we got a good few votes today."

"who did you get?" asked mr. lyons. "well, i got parkes for one, and i got atkinsonfor two, and got ward of dawson street. fine old chap he is, too--regularold toff, old conservative! 'but isn't your candidate anationalist?' said he. 'he's a respectable man,' said i. 'he's in favourof whatever will benefit this country. he's a big ratepayer,' i said. 'hehas extensive house property in the city and three places of business andisn't it to his own advantage to keep down the rates? he's a prominentand respected citizen,' said i, 'and a poor law guardian,and he doesn't belong to any

party, good, bad, or indifferent.' that'sthe way to talk to 'em." "and what about the address to the king?"said mr. lyons, after drinking and smacking his lips. "listen to me," said mr. henchy. "what wewant in this country, as i said to old ward, is capital. the king's cominghere will mean an influx of money into this country. the citizens ofdublin will benefit by it. look at all the factories down by the quaysthere, idle! look at all the money there is in the country if we only workedthe old industries, the mills, the ship-building yards and factories.it's capital we want."

"but look here, john," said mr. o'connor."why should we welcome the king 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 afterhis old mother keeping him out of it till the man was grey. he's a man ofthe world, and he means well by us. he's a jolly fine decent fellow,if you ask me, and no damn nonsense about him. he just says to himself:'the old one never went to see these wild irish. by christ, i'll gomyself and see what they're like.' and are we going to insult the manwhen he comes over here on a

friendly visit? eh? isn't that right, crofton?" mr. crofton nodded his head. "but after all now," said mr. lyons argumentatively,"king edward's life, 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 youand me. he's fond of his glass of 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. "butlook at the case of parnell

now." "in the name of god," said mr. henchy, "where'sthe analogy between the two cases?" "what i mean," said mr. lyons, "is we haveour ideals. why, now, would we welcome a man like that? do you think nowafter what he did parnell was a fit man to lead us? and why, then, wouldwe do it for edward the seventh?" "this is parnell's anniversary," said mr.o'connor, "and don't let us stir up any bad blood. we all respect himnow that he's dead and

gone--even the conservatives," he added, turningto mr. crofton. pok! the tardy cork flew out of mr. crofton'sbottle. mr. crofton got up from his box and went to the fire. as hereturned with his capture he said in a deep voice: "our side of the house respects him, becausehe was a gentleman." "right you are, crofton!" said mr. henchyfiercely. "he was the only man that could keep that bag of cats in order.'down, ye dogs! lie down, ye curs!' that's the way he treated them. comein, joe! come in!" he called out, catching sight of mr. hynes in the doorway.

mr. hynes came in slowly. "open another bottle of stout, jack," saidmr. henchy. "o, i forgot there's no corkscrew! here, show me one hereand i'll put it at the fire." the old man handed him another bottle andhe placed it on the hob. "sit down, joe," said mr. o'connor, "we'rejust talking about the chief." "ay, ay!" said mr. henchy. mr. hynes sat on the side of the table nearmr. 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. "giveus that thing you wrote--do you remember? have you got it on you?" "o, ay!" said mr. henchy. "give us that. didyou 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 oncethe piece to which they were alluding, but, after reflecting a while, hesaid:

"o, that thing is it.... sure, that's oldnow." "out with it, man!" said mr. o'connor. "'sh, 'sh," said mr. henchy. "now, joe!" mr. hynes hesitated a little longer. thenamid the silence he took off his hat, laid it on the table and stood up.he seemed to be rehearsing the piece in his mind. after a rather longpause he announced: the death of parnell6th october, 1891 he cleared his throat once or twice and thenbegan to recite: he is dead. our uncrowned king is dead.o, erin, mourn with grief and woe

for he lies dead whom the fell gangof modern hypocrites laid low. he lies slain by the coward houndshe raised to glory from the mire; and erin's hopes and erin's dreamsperish upon her monarch's pyre. in palace, cabin or in cotthe irish heart where'er it be is bowed with woe--for he is gonewho would have wrought her destiny. he would have had his erin famed,the green flag gloriously unfurled, her statesmen, bards and warriors raisedbefore the nations of the world. he dreamed (alas, 'twas but a dream!)of liberty: but as he strove to clutch that idol, treacherysundered him from the thing he loved.

shame on the coward, caitiff handsthat smote their lord or with a kiss betrayed him to the rabble-routof fawning priests--no friends of his. may everlasting shame consumethe memory of those who tried to befoul and smear the exalted nameof one who spurned them in his pride. he fell as fall the mighty ones,nobly undaunted to the last, and death has now united himwith erin's heroes of the past. no sound of strife disturb his sleep!calmly he rests: no human pain or high ambition spurs him nowthe 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 joyone grief--the memory of parnell. mr. hynes sat down again on the table. whenhe had finished his recitation there was a silence and then aburst of clapping: even mr. lyons clapped. the applause continued fora little time. when it had ceased all the auditors drank from their bottlesin silence. pok! the cork flew out of mr. hynes' bottle,but mr. hynes remained sitting flushed and bare-headed on the table.he did not seem to have

heard the invitation. "good man, joe!" said mr. o'connor, takingout his cigarette papers and pouch the better to hide his emotion. "what do you think of that, crofton?" criedmr. henchy. "isn't that fine? what?" mr. crofton said that it was a very fine pieceof writing. a mother mr holohan, assistant secretary of the eireabu society, had been walking up and down dublin for nearly a month,with his hands and

pockets full of dirty pieces of paper, arrangingabout the series of concerts. he had a game leg and for this hisfriends called him hoppy holohan. he walked up and down constantly,stood by the hour at street corners arguing the point and made notes;but in the end it was mrs. kearney who arranged everything. miss devlin had become mrs. kearney out ofspite. she had been educated in a high-class convent, where she had learnedfrench and music. as she was naturally pale and unbending in mannershe made few friends at school. when she came to the age of marriageshe was sent out to many

houses where her playing and ivory mannerswere much admired. she sat amid the chilly circle of her accomplishments,waiting for some suitor to brave it and offer her a brilliant life.but the young men whom she met were ordinary and she gave them no encouragement,trying to console her romantic desires by eating a great dealof turkish delight in secret. however, when she drew near the limitand her friends began to loosen their tongues about her, she silencedthem by marrying mr. kearney, who was a bootmaker on ormond quay. he was much older than she. his conversation,which was serious, took

place at intervals in his great brown beard.after the first year of married life, mrs. kearney perceived thatsuch a man would wear better than a romantic person, but she never puther own romantic ideas away. he was sober, thrifty and pious; he went tothe altar every first friday, sometimes with her, oftener by himself.but she never weakened in her religion and was a good wife to him.at some party in a strange house when she lifted her eyebrow ever soslightly he stood up to take his leave and, when his cough troubled him,she put the eider-down quilt over his feet and made a strong rum punch.for his part, he was a model

father. by paying a small sum every week intoa society, he ensured for both his daughters a dowry of one hundredpounds each when they came to the age of twenty-four. he sent the olderdaughter, kathleen, to a good convent, where she learned french and music,and afterward paid her fees at the academy. every year in the monthof july mrs. kearney found occasion to say to some friend: "my good man is packing us off to skerriesfor a few weeks." if it was not skerries it was howth or greystones. when the irish revival began to be appreciablemrs. kearney determined

to take advantage of her daughter's name andbrought an irish teacher to the house. kathleen and her sister sent irishpicture postcards to their friends and these friends sent back otherirish picture postcards. on special sundays, when mr. kearney wentwith his family to the pro-cathedral, a little crowd of people wouldassemble after mass at the corner of cathedral street. they wereall friends of the kearneys--musical friends or nationalist friends;and, when they had played every little counter of gossip, theyshook hands with one another all together, laughing at the crossingof so many hands, and said

good-bye to one another in irish. soon thename of miss kathleen kearney began to be heard often on people's lips.people said that she was very clever at music and a very nice girland, moreover, that she was a believer in the language movement. mrs.kearney was well content at this. therefore she was not surprised whenone day mr. holohan came to her and proposed that her daughter shouldbe the accompanist at a series of four grand concerts which his societywas going to give in the antient concert rooms. she brought him intothe drawing-room, made him sit down and brought out the decanter andthe silver biscuit-barrel. she

entered heart and soul into the details ofthe enterprise, advised and dissuaded: and finally a contract was drawnup by which kathleen was to receive eight guineas for her services asaccompanist at the four grand concerts. as mr. holohan was a novice in such delicatematters as the wording of bills and the disposing of items for a programme,mrs. kearney helped him. she had tact. she knew what artistesshould go into capitals and what artistes should go into small type. sheknew that the first tenor would not like to come on after mr. meade'scomic turn. to keep the

audience continually diverted she slippedthe doubtful items in between the old favourites. mr. holohan called tosee her every day to have her advice on some point. she was invariably friendlyand 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. kearneybought some lovely blush-pink charmeuse in brown thomas's to let into thefront of kathleen's dress.

it cost a pretty penny; but there are occasionswhen a little expense is justifiable. she took a dozen of two-shillingtickets for the final concert and sent them to those friends whocould not be trusted to come otherwise. she forgot nothing, and, thanksto her, everything that was to be done was done. the concerts were to be on wednesday, thursday,friday and saturday. when mrs. kearney arrived with her daughterat the antient concert rooms on wednesday night she did not like the lookof things. a few young men, wearing bright blue badges in their coats,stood idle in the vestibule;

none of them wore evening dress. she passedby with her daughter and a quick glance through the open door of thehall showed her the cause of the stewards' idleness. at first she wonderedhad she mistaken the hour. no, it was twenty minutes to eight. in the dressing-room behind the stage shewas introduced to the secretary of the society, mr. fitzpatrick.she smiled and shook his hand. he was a little man, with a white, vacantface. she noticed that he wore his soft brown hat carelessly on theside of his head and that his accent was flat. he held a programme inhis hand, and, while he was

talking to her, he chewed one end of it intoa moist pulp. he seemed to bear disappointments lightly. mr. holohancame into the dressingroom every few minutes with reports from the box-office.the artistes talked among themselves nervously, glanced from timeto time at the mirror and rolled and unrolled their music. when it wasnearly half-past eight, the few people in the hall began to express theirdesire to be entertained. mr. fitzpatrick came in, smiled vacantly atthe room, and said: "well now, ladies and gentlemen. i supposewe'd better open the ball." mrs. kearney rewarded his very flat finalsyllable with a quick stare of

contempt, and then said to her daughter encouragingly: "are you ready, dear?" when she had an opportunity, she called mr.holohan aside and asked him to tell her what it meant. mr. holohan didnot know what it meant. he said that the committee had made a mistakein arranging for four concerts: four was too many. "and the artistes!" said mrs. kearney. "ofcourse they are doing their best, but really they are not good." mr. holohan admitted that the artistes wereno good but the committee,

he said, had decided to let the first threeconcerts go as they pleased and reserve all the talent for saturday night.mrs. kearney said nothing, but, as the mediocre items followedone another on the platform and the few people in the hall grew fewerand fewer, she began to regret that she had put herself to any expense forsuch a concert. there was something she didn't like in the look of thingsand mr. fitzpatrick's vacant smile irritated her very much. however,she said nothing and waited to see how it would end. the concertexpired shortly before ten, and everyone went home quickly.

the concert on thursday night was better attended,but mrs. kearney saw at once that the house was filled withpaper. the audience behaved indecorously, as if the concert were an informaldress rehearsal. mr. fitzpatrick seemed to enjoy himself; he wasquite unconscious that mrs. kearney was taking angry note of his conduct.he stood at the edge of the screen, from time to time jutting outhis head and exchanging a laugh with two friends in the corner of thebalcony. in the course of the evening, mrs. kearney learned that thefriday concert was to be abandoned and that the committee was goingto move heaven and earth to

secure a bumper house on saturday night. whenshe heard this, she sought out mr. holohan. she buttonholed him as hewas limping out quickly with a glass of lemonade for a young lady and askedhim was it true. yes, it was true. "but, of course, that doesn't alter the contract,"she said. "the contract was for four concerts." mr. holohan seemed to be in a hurry; he advisedher to speak to mr. fitzpatrick. mrs. kearney was now beginningto be alarmed. she called mr. fitzpatrick away from his screen and toldhim that her daughter had

signed for four concerts and that, of course,according to the terms of the contract, she should receive the sumoriginally stipulated for, whether the society gave the four concertsor not. mr. fitzpatrick, who did not catch the point at issue very quickly,seemed unable to resolve the difficulty and said that he would bringthe matter before the committee. mrs. kearney's anger began to flutterin her cheek and she had all she could do to keep from asking: "and who is the cometty pray?" but she knew that it would not be ladyliketo do that: so she was

silent. little boys were sent out into the principalstreets of dublin early on friday morning with bundles of handbills.special puffs appeared in all the evening papers, reminding the music-lovingpublic of the treat which was in store for it on the following evening.mrs. kearney was somewhat reassured, but she thought well totell her husband part of her suspicions. he listened carefully andsaid that perhaps it would be better if he went with her on saturday night.she agreed. she respected her husband in the same way as she respectedthe general post office, as

something large, secure and fixed; and thoughshe knew the small number of his talents she appreciated his abstractvalue as a male. she was glad that he had suggested coming with her.she thought her plans over. the night of the grand concert came. mrs.kearney, with her husband and daughter, arrived at the antient concert roomsthree-quarters of an hour before the time at which the concert was tobegin. by ill luck it was a rainy evening. mrs. kearney placed her daughter'sclothes and music in charge of her husband and went all over thebuilding looking for mr. holohan or mr. fitzpatrick. she could findneither. she asked the

stewards was any member of the committee inthe hall and, after a great deal of trouble, a steward brought out a littlewoman named miss beirne to whom mrs. kearney explained thatshe wanted to see one of the secretaries. miss beirne expected them anyminute and asked could she do anything. mrs. kearney looked searchinglyat the oldish face which was screwed into an expression of trustfulnessand enthusiasm and answered: "no, thank you!" the little woman hoped they would have a goodhouse. she looked out at the rain until the melancholy of the wetstreet effaced all the

trustfulness and enthusiasm from her twistedfeatures. then she gave a little 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 thesecond tenor had already come. the bass, mr. duggan, was a slenderyoung man with a scattered black moustache. he was the son of a hallporter in an office in the city and, as a boy, he had sung prolongedbass notes in the resounding hall. from this humble state he had raisedhimself until he had become

a first-rate artiste. he had appeared in grandopera. one night, when an operatic artiste had fallen ill, he had undertakenthe part of the king in the opera of maritana at the queen's theatre.he sang his music with great feeling and volume and was warmly welcomedby the gallery; but, unfortunately, he marred the good impressionby wiping his nose in his gloved hand once or twice out of thoughtlessness.he was unassuming and spoke little. he said yous so softly thatit passed unnoticed and he never drank anything stronger than milk forhis voice's sake. mr. bell, the second tenor, was a fair-haired littleman who competed every year

for prizes at the feis ceoil. on his fourthtrial he had been awarded a bronze medal. he was extremely nervous andextremely jealous of other tenors and he covered his nervous jealousywith an ebullient friendliness. it was his humour to have peopleknow what an ordeal a concert was to him. therefore when he sawmr. duggan he went over to him and asked: "are you in it too?" "yes," said mr. duggan. mr. bell laughed at his fellow-sufferer, heldout his hand and said:

"shake!" mrs. kearney passed by these two young menand went to the edge of the screen to view the house. the seats were beingfilled up rapidly and a pleasant noise circulated in the auditorium.she came back and spoke to her husband privately. their conversationwas evidently about kathleen for they both glanced at her often as shestood chatting to one of her nationalist friends, miss healy, the contralto.an unknown solitary woman with a pale face walked through theroom. the women followed with keen eyes the faded blue dress which was stretchedupon a meagre body.

someone said that she was madam glynn, thesoprano. "i wonder where did they dig her up," saidkathleen to miss healy. "i'm sure i never heard of her." miss healy had to smile. mr. holohan limpedinto the dressing-room at that moment and the two young ladies askedhim who was the unknown woman. mr. holohan said that she was madamglynn from london. madam glynn took her stand in a corner of the room,holding a roll of music stiffly before her and from time to time changingthe direction of her startled gaze. the shadow took her faded dressinto shelter but fell

revengefully into the little cup behind hercollar-bone. the noise of the hall became more audible. the first tenorand the baritone arrived together. they were both well dressed, stoutand complacent and they brought a breath of opulence among the company. mrs. kearney brought her daughter over tothem, and talked to them amiably. she wanted to be on good terms withthem but, while she strove to be polite, her eyes followed mr. holohanin his limping and devious courses. as soon as she could she excusedherself and went out after "mr. holohan, i want to speak to you for amoment," she said.

they went down to a discreet part of the corridor.mrs kearney asked him when was her daughter going to be paid.mr. holohan said that mr. fitzpatrick had charge of that. mrs. kearneysaid that she didn't know anything about mr. fitzpatrick. her daughterhad signed a contract for eight guineas and she would have to be paid.mr. holohan said that it wasn't his business. "why isn't it your business?" asked mrs. kearney."didn't you yourself bring her the contract? anyway, if it's notyour business it's my business and i mean to see to it."

"you'd better speak to mr. fitzpatrick," saidmr. holohan distantly. "i don't know anything about mr. fitzpatrick,"repeated mrs. kearney. "i have my contract, and i intend to see thatit is carried out." when she came back to the dressing-room hercheeks were slightly suffused. the room was lively. two men inoutdoor dress had taken possession of the fireplace and were chattingfamiliarly with miss healy and the baritone. they were the freeman manand mr. o'madden burke. the freeman man had come in to say that he couldnot wait for the concert as he had to report the lecture which an americanpriest was giving in

the mansion house. he said they were to leavethe report for him at the freeman office and he would see that it wentin. he was a grey-haired man, with a plausible voice and careful manners.he held an extinguished cigar in his hand and the aroma of cigar smokefloated near him. he had not intended to stay a moment because concertsand artistes bored him considerably but he remained leaning againstthe mantelpiece. miss healy stood in front of him, talking and laughing.he was old enough to suspect one reason for her politeness butyoung enough in spirit to turn the moment to account. the warmth, fragranceand colour of her body

appealed to his senses. he was pleasantlyconscious that the bosom which he saw rise and fall slowly beneath him roseand fell at that moment for him, that the laughter and fragrance andwilful glances were his tribute. when he could stay no longer he tookleave of her regretfully. "o'madden burke will write the notice," heexplained to mr. holohan, "and i'll see it in." "thank you very much, mr. hendrick," saidmr. holohan, "you'll see it in, i know. now, won't you have a little somethingbefore you go?" "i don't mind," said mr. hendrick.

the two men went along some tortuous passagesand up a dark staircase and came to a secluded room where one of thestewards was uncorking bottles for a few gentlemen. one of thesegentlemen was mr. o'madden burke, who had found out the room by instinct.he was a suave, elderly man who balanced his imposing body, when atrest, upon a large silk umbrella. his magniloquent western name wasthe moral umbrella upon which he balanced the fine problem of hisfinances. he was widely respected. while mr. holohan was entertaining the freemanman mrs. kearney was

speaking so animatedly to her husband thathe had to ask her to lower her voice. the conversation of the othersin the dressing-room had become strained. mr. bell, the first item,stood ready with his music but the accompanist made no sign. evidentlysomething was wrong. mr. kearney looked straight before him, strokinghis beard, while mrs. kearney spoke into kathleen's ear with subduedemphasis. from the hall came sounds of encouragement, clapping andstamping of feet. the first tenor and the baritone and miss healystood together, waiting tranquilly, but mr. bell's nerves were greatlyagitated because he was

afraid the audience would think that he hadcome late. mr. holohan and mr. o'madden burke came intothe room. in a moment mr. holohan perceived the hush. he went over tomrs. kearney and spoke with her earnestly. while they were speakingthe noise in the hall grew louder. mr. holohan became very red and excited.he spoke volubly, but mrs. kearney said curtly at intervals: "she won't go on. she must get her eight guineas." mr. holohan pointed desperately towards thehall where the audience was clapping and stamping. he appealed to mr kearneyand to kathleen. but

mr. kearney continued to stroke his beardand kathleen looked down, moving the point of her new shoe: it was nother fault. mrs. kearney repeated: "she won't go on without her money." after a swift struggle of tongues mr. holohanhobbled out in haste. the room was silent. when the strain of thesilence had become somewhat painful miss healy said to the baritone: "have you seen mrs. pat campbell this week?" the baritone had not seen her but he had beentold that she was very

fine. the conversation went no further. thefirst tenor bent his head and began to count the links of the gold chainwhich was extended across his waist, smiling and humming random notesto observe the effect on the frontal sinus. from time to time everyoneglanced at mrs. kearney. the noise in the auditorium had risen to aclamour when mr. fitzpatrick burst into the room, followed by mr. holohan,who was panting. the clapping and stamping in the hall were punctuatedby whistling. mr. fitzpatrick held a few banknotes in his hand.he counted out four into mrs. kearney's hand and said she wouldget the other half at the

interval. mrs. kearney said: "this is four shillings short." but kathleen gathered in her skirt and said:"now, mr. bell," to the first item, who was shaking like an aspen.the singer and the accompanist went out together. the noise inhall died away. there was a pause of a few seconds: and then the pianowas heard. the first part of the concert was very successfulexcept for madam glynn's item. the poor lady sang killarneyin a bodiless gasping voice, with all the old-fashioned mannerisms of intonationand pronunciation

which she believed lent elegance to her singing.she looked as if she had been resurrected from an old stage-wardrobeand the cheaper parts of the hall made fun of her high wailing notes.the first tenor and the contralto, however, brought down the house.kathleen played a selection of irish airs which was generously applauded.the first part closed with a stirring patriotic recitation deliveredby a young lady who arranged amateur theatricals. it was deservedly applauded;and, when it was ended, the men went out for the interval,content. all this time the dressing-room was a hiveof excitement. in one corner

were mr. holohan, mr. fitzpatrick, miss beirne,two of the stewards, the baritone, the bass, and mr. o'madden burke.mr. o'madden burke said it was the most scandalous exhibition he hadever witnessed. miss kathleen kearney's musical career was ended in dublinafter that, he said. the baritone was asked what did he think of mrs.kearney's conduct. he did not like to say anything. he had been paidhis money and wished to be at peace with men. however, he said that mrs.kearney might have taken the artistes into consideration. the stewardsand the secretaries debated hotly as to what should be done when the intervalcame.

"i agree with miss beirne," said mr. o'maddenburke. "pay her nothing." in another corner of the room were mrs. kearneyand her husband, mr. bell, miss healy and the young lady who hadto recite the patriotic piece. mrs. kearney said that the committeehad treated her scandalously. she had spared neither troublenor expense and this was how she was repaid. they thought they had only a girl to dealwith and that, therefore, they could ride roughshod over her. but she wouldshow them their mistake. they wouldn't have dared to have treated herlike that if she had been a

man. but she would see that her daughter gother rights: she wouldn't be fooled. if they didn't pay her to the lastfarthing she would make dublin ring. of course she was sorry for thesake of the artistes. but what else could she do? she appealed to thesecond tenor who said he thought she had not been well treated. thenshe appealed to miss healy. miss healy wanted to join the other groupbut she did not like to do so because she was a great friend of kathleen'sand the kearneys had often invited her to their house. as soon as the first part was ended mr. fitzpatrickand mr. holohan went

over to mrs. kearney and told her that theother four guineas would be paid after the committee meeting on the followingtuesday and that, in case her daughter did not play for the secondpart, the committee would consider the contract broken and would paynothing. "i haven't seen any committee," said mrs.kearney angrily. "my daughter has her contract. she will get four poundseight into her hand or a foot she won't put on that platform." "i'm surprised at you, mrs. kearney," saidmr. holohan. "i never thought you would treat us this way."

"and what way did you treat me?" asked mrs.kearney. her face was inundated with an angry colourand she looked as if she would attack someone with her hands. "i'm asking for my rights." she said. "you might have some sense of decency," saidmr. holohan. "might i, indeed?... and when i ask when mydaughter is going to be paid i can't get a civil answer." she tossed her head and assumed a haughtyvoice: "you must speak to the secretary. it's notmy business. i'm a great

fellow fol-the-diddle-i-do." "i thought you were a lady," said mr. holohan,walking away from her abruptly. after that mrs. kearney's conduct was condemnedon all hands: everyone approved of what the committee had done. shestood at the door, haggard with rage, arguing with her husband and daughter,gesticulating with them. she waited until it was time for thesecond part to begin in the hope that the secretaries would approach her.but miss healy had kindly consented to play one or two accompaniments.mrs. kearney had to stand

aside to allow the baritone and his accompanistto pass up to the platform. she stood still for an instant likean angry stone image and, when the first notes of the song struckher ear, she caught up her daughter's cloak and said to her husband: "get a cab!" he went out at once. mrs. kearney wrappedthe cloak round her daughter and followed him. as she passed through thedoorway she stopped and glared 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. holohanbegan to pace up and down the room, in order to cool himself forhe his skin on fire. "that's a nice lady!" he said. "o, she's anice lady!" "you did the proper thing, holohan," saidmr. o'madden burke, poised upon his umbrella in approval. grace two gentlemen who were in the lavatory atthe time tried to lift him up:

but he was quite helpless. he lay curled upat the foot of the stairs down which he had fallen. they succeeded inturning him over. his hat had rolled a few yards away and his clotheswere smeared with the filth and ooze of the floor on which he had lain,face downwards. his eyes were closed and he breathed with a gruntingnoise. a thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. these two gentlemen and one of the curatescarried him up the stairs and laid him down again on the floor of thebar. in two minutes he was surrounded by a ring of men. the manager ofthe bar asked everyone

who he was and who was with him. no one knewwho he was but one of the curates said he had served the gentleman witha 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 closedagain elastically. a dark medal of blood had formed itself near theman's head on the tessellated

floor. the manager, alarmed by the grey pallorof the man's face, sent for a policeman. his collar was unfastened and his necktieundone. he opened eyes for an instant, sighed and closed them again. oneof gentlemen who had carried him upstairs held a dinged silk hat in hishand. the manager asked repeatedly did no one know who the injuredman was or where had his friends gone. the door of the bar opened andan immense constable entered. a crowd which had followed him downthe laneway collected outside the door, struggling to look in throughthe glass panels.

the manager at once began to narrate whathe knew. the constable, a young man with thick immobile features, listened.he moved his head slowly to right and left and from the manager to theperson on the floor, as if he feared to be the victim of some delusion.then he drew off his glove, produced a small book from his waist, lickedthe lead of his pencil and made ready to indite. he asked in a suspiciousprovincial accent: "who is the man? what's his name and address?" a young man in a cycling-suit cleared hisway through the ring of bystanders. he knelt down promptly besidethe injured man and called for

water. the constable knelt down also to help.the young man washed the blood from the injured man's mouth and thencalled for some brandy. the constable repeated the order in an authoritativevoice until a curate came running with the glass. the brandy wasforced down the man's throat. in a few seconds he opened his eyesand looked about him. he looked at the circle of faces and then, understanding,strove to rise to his feet. "you're all right now?" asked the young manin the cycling-suit. "sha,'s nothing," said the injured man, tryingto stand up.

he was helped to his feet. the manager saidsomething about a hospital and some of the bystanders gave advice. thebattered silk hat was placed on the man's head. the constable asked: "where do you live?" the man, without answering, began to twirlthe ends of his moustache. he made light of his accident. it was nothing,he said: only a little accident. 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 being

debated a tall agile gentleman of fair complexion,wearing a long yellow ulster, came from the far end of the bar.seeing the spectacle, he called out: "hallo, tom, old man! what's the trouble?" "sha,'s nothing," said the man. the new-comer surveyed the deplorable figurebefore him and then turned to 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 hisfriend by the arm. "no bones broken. what? can you walk?" the young man in the cycling-suit took theman by the other arm and the crowd divided. "how did you get yourself into this mess?"asked mr. power. "the gentleman fell down the stairs," saidthe young man. "i' 'ery 'uch o'liged to you, sir," said theinjured man. "not at all."

"'ant we have a little...?" "not now. not now." the three men left the bar and the crowd siftedthrough the doors in to the laneway. the manager brought the constableto the stairs to inspect the scene of the accident. they agreed thatthe gentleman must have missed his footing. the customers returnedto the counter and a curate set about removing the traces of blood fromthe floor. when they came out into grafton street, mr.power whistled for an outsider. the injured man said again as wellas he could.

"i' 'ery 'uch o'liged to you, sir. i hopewe'll 'eet again. 'y na'e is kernan." the shock and the incipient pain had partlysobered him. "don't mention it," said the young man. they shook hands. mr. kernan was hoisted onto the car and, while mr. power was giving directions to the carman,he expressed his gratitude to the young man and regretted that they couldnot have a little drink together. "another time," said the young man.

the car drove off towards westmoreland street.as it passed ballast office the clock showed half-past nine. akeen east wind hit them, blowing from the mouth of the river. mr. kernanwas huddled together with cold. his friend asked him to tell howthe accident had happened. "i'an't 'an," he answered, "'y 'ongue is hurt." "show." the other leaned over the well of the carand peered into mr. kernan's mouth but he could not see. he struck a matchand, sheltering it in the shell of his hands, peered again into themouth which mr. kernan opened

obediently. the swaying movement of the carbrought the match to and from the opened mouth. the lower teeth andgums were covered with clotted blood and a minute piece of the tongueseemed to have been bitten off. the match was blown out. "that's ugly," said mr. power. "sha, 's nothing," said mr. kernan, closinghis mouth and pulling the collar of his filthy coat across his neck. mr. kernan was a commercial traveller of theold school which believed in the dignity of its calling. he had neverbeen seen in the city

without a silk hat of some decency and a pairof gaiters. by grace of these two articles of clothing, he said, aman could always pass muster. he carried on the tradition of his napoleon,the great blackwhite, whose memory he evoked at times by legend and mimicry.modern business methods had spared him only so far as to allow hima little office in crowe street, on the window blind of which was writtenthe name of his firm with the address--london, e. c. on the mantelpieceof this little office a little leaden battalion of canisters wasdrawn up and on the table before the window stood four or five chinabowls which were usually half

full of a black liquid. from these bowls mr.kernan tasted tea. he took a mouthful, drew it up, saturated his palatewith it and then spat it forth into the grate. then he paused to judge. mr. power, a much younger man, was employedin the royal irish constabulary office in dublin castle. thearc of his social rise intersected the arc of his friend's decline,but mr. kernan's decline was mitigated by the fact that certain ofthose friends who had known him at his highest point of success stillesteemed him as a character. mr. power was one of these friends. his inexplicabledebts were a byword

in his circle; he was a debonair young man. the car halted before a small house on theglasnevin road and mr. kernan was helped into the house. his wife put himto bed while mr. power sat downstairs in the kitchen asking the childrenwhere they went to school and what book they were in. the children--twogirls and a boy, conscious of their father's helplessness and of theirmother's absence, began some horseplay with him. he was surprised at theirmanners and at their accents, and his brow grew thoughtful. aftera while mrs. kernan entered the kitchen, exclaiming:

"such a sight! o, he'll do for himself oneday and that's the holy alls of it. he's been drinking since friday." mr. power was careful to explain to her thathe was not responsible, that he had come on the scene by the merestaccident. mrs. kernan, remembering mr. power's good offices duringdomestic quarrels, as well as many small, but opportune loans, said: "o, you needn't tell me that, mr. power. iknow you're a friend of his, not like some of the others he does be with.they're all right so long as he has money in his pocket to keep himout from his wife and family.

nice friends! who was he with tonight, i'dlike to know?" mr. power shook his head but said nothing. "i'm so sorry," she continued, "that i'venothing in the house to offer you. but if you wait a minute i'll send roundto fogarty's at the corner." mr. power stood up. "we were waiting for him to come home withthe money. he never seems to think he has a home at all." "o, now, mrs. kernan," said mr. power, "we'llmake him turn over a new

leaf. i'll talk to martin. he's the man. we'llcome here one of these nights and talk it over." she saw him to the door. the carman was stampingup and down the footpath, 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 raisedhis 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 cartill it was out of sight.

then she withdrew them, went into the houseand emptied her husband's pockets. she was an active, practical woman of middleage. not long before she had celebrated her silver wedding and renewedher intimacy with her husband by waltzing with him to mr. power'saccompaniment. in her days of courtship, mr. kernan had seemed to hera not ungallant figure: and she still hurried to the chapel door whenevera wedding was reported and, seeing the bridal pair, recalled withvivid pleasure how she had passed out of the star of the sea church insandymount, leaning on the

arm of a jovial well-fed man, who was dressedsmartly in a frock-coat and lavender trousers and carried a silk hatgracefully balanced upon his other arm. after three weeks she had founda wife's life irksome and, later on, when she was beginning to findit unbearable, she had become a mother. the part of mother presentedto her no insuperable difficulties and for twenty-five years shehad kept house shrewdly for her husband. her two eldest sons were launched.one was in a draper's shop in glasgow and the other was clerk toa tea-merchant in belfast. they were good sons, wrote regularly and sometimessent home money. the

other children were still at school. mr. kernan sent a letter to his office nextday and remained in bed. she made beef-tea for him and scolded him roundly.she accepted his frequent intemperance as part of the climate, healedhim dutifully whenever he was sick and always tried to make him eata breakfast. there were worse husbands. he had never been violent sincethe boys had grown up, and she knew that he would walk to the end of thomasstreet and back again to book even a small order. two nights after, his friends came to seehim. she brought them up to

his bedroom, the air of which was impregnatedwith a personal odour, and gave them chairs at the fire. mr. kernan'stongue, the occasional stinging pain of which had made him somewhatirritable during the day, became more polite. he sat propped up in thebed by pillows and the little colour in his puffy cheeks made themresemble warm cinders. he apologised to his guests for the disorderof the room, but at the same time looked at them a little proudly, witha veteran's pride. he was quite unconscious that he was the victimof a plot which his friends, mr. cunningham, mr. m'coy and mr.power had disclosed to mrs.

kernan in the parlour. the idea had been mr.power's, but its development was entrusted to mr. cunningham. mr. kernancame of protestant stock and, though he had been converted to the catholicfaith at the time of his marriage, he had not been in the paleof the church for twenty years. he was fond, moreover, of giving side-thrustsat catholicism. mr. cunningham was the very man for such acase. he was an elder colleague of mr. power. his own domestic lifewas not very happy. people had great sympathy with him, for it was knownthat he had married an unpresentable woman who was an incurable drunkard.he had set up house

for her six times; and each time she had pawnedthe furniture on him. everyone had respect for poor martin cunningham.he was a thoroughly sensible man, influential and intelligent.his blade of human knowledge, natural astuteness particularised by longassociation with cases in the police courts, had been tempered by briefimmersions in the waters of general philosophy. he was well informed.his friends bowed to his opinions and considered that his face waslike 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 illusions left. religion for her was a habit, and shesuspected that a man of her husband's age would not change greatly beforedeath. she was tempted to see a curious appropriateness in his accidentand, but that she did not wish to seem bloody-minded, would havetold the gentlemen that mr. kernan's tongue would not suffer by beingshortened. however, mr. cunningham was a capable man; and religionwas religion. the scheme might do good and, at least, it could do noharm. her beliefs were not extravagant. she believed steadily inthe sacred heart as the

most generally useful of all catholic devotionsand approved of the sacraments. her faith was bounded by her kitchen,but, if she was put to it, she could believe also in the bansheeand in the holy ghost. the gentlemen began to talk of the accident.mr. cunningham said that he had once known a similar case. a man of seventyhad bitten off a piece of his tongue during an epileptic fit andthe tongue had filled in again, so that no one could see a trace ofthe 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 ofsome reputation. his wife, who had been a soprano, still taught young childrento play the piano at low terms. his line of life had not been the shortestdistance between two points and for short periods he had been drivento live by his wits. he had been a clerk in the midland railway, acanvasser for advertisements for the irish times and for the freeman'sjournal, a town traveller for a coal firm on commission, a private inquiryagent, a clerk in the office of the sub-sheriff, and he had recentlybecome secretary to the

city coroner. his new office made him professionallyinterested in mr. kernan's case. "pain? not much," answered mr. kernan. "butit's so sickening. i feel as if i wanted to retch off." "that's the boose," said mr. cunningham firmly. "no," said mr. kernan. "i think i caught acold on the car. there's something keeps coming into my throat, phlegmor----" "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. powerat the same time with an air of challenge. mr. cunningham nodded his headrapidly and mr. power said: "ah, well, all's well that ends well." "i'm very much obliged to you, old man," saidthe 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? little

chap with sandy hair...." "and who else?" "harford." "hm," said mr. cunningham. when mr. cunningham made that remark, peoplewere silent. it was known that the speaker had secret sources of information.in this case the monosyllable had a moral intention. mr. harfordsometimes formed one of a little detachment which left the cityshortly after noon on sunday with the purpose of arriving as soon as possibleat some public-house on

the outskirts of the city where its membersduly qualified themselves as bona fide travellers. but his fellow-travellershad never consented to overlook his origin. he had begun lifeas an obscure financier by lending small sums of money to workmen atusurious interest. later on he had become the partner of a very fat, shortgentleman, mr. goldberg, in the liffey loan bank. though he had neverembraced more than the jewish ethical code, his fellow-catholics, wheneverthey had smarted in person or by proxy under his exactions, spoke ofhim bitterly as an irish jew and an illiterate, and saw divine disapprovalof usury made manifest

through the person of his idiot son. at othertimes they remembered his good points. "i wonder where did he go to," said mr. kernan. he wished the details of the incident to remainvague. he wished his friends to think there had been some mistake,that mr. harford and he had missed each other. his friends, who knewquite well mr. harford's manners in drinking were silent. mr. powersaid again: "all's well that ends well." mr. kernan changed the subject at once.

"that was a decent young chap, that medicalfellow," he said. "only for him----" "o, only for him," said mr. power, "it mighthave been a case of seven days, without the option of a fine." "yes, yes," said mr. kernan, trying to remember."i remember now there was a policeman. decent young fellow, he seemed.how did it happen at all?" "it happened that you were peloothered, tom,"said mr. cunningham gravely.

"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 christianname. he was not straight-laced, but he could not forget thatmr. m'coy had recently made a crusade in search of valises and portmanteausto enable mrs. m'coy to fulfil imaginary engagements in the country.more than he resented the fact that he had been victimised he resentedsuch low playing of the game. he answered the question, therefore,as if mr. kernan had asked it.

the narrative made mr. kernan indignant. hewas keenly conscious of his citizenship, wished to live with his cityon terms mutually honourable and resented any affront put upon him by thosewhom he called country bumpkins. "is this what we pay rates for?" he asked."to feed and clothe these ignorant bostooms... and they're nothing else." mr. cunningham laughed. he was a castle officialonly during office hours. "how could they be anything else, tom?" hesaid.

he assumed a thick, provincial accent andsaid in a tone of command: "65, catch your cabbage!" everyone laughed. mr. m'coy, who wanted toenter the conversation by any door, pretended that he had never heard thestory. mr. cunningham said: "it is supposed--they say, you know--to takeplace in the depot where they get these thundering big country fellows,omadhauns, you know, to drill. the sergeant makes them stand in arow against the wall and hold up their plates." he illustrated the story by grotesque gestures.

"at dinner, you know. then he has a bloodybig bowl of cabbage before him on the table and a bloody big spoon likea shovel. he takes up a wad of cabbage on the spoon and pegs it acrossthe room and the poor devils have to try and catch it on their plates:65, catch your cabbage." everyone laughed again: but mr. kernan wassomewhat indignant still. he talked of writing a letter to the papers. "these yahoos coming up here," he said, "thinkthey can boss the people. i needn't tell you, martin, what kind of menthey are." mr. cunningham gave a qualified assent.

"it's like everything else in this world,"he said. "you get some bad ones 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 my opinion!" mrs. kernan entered the room and, placinga tray on the table, said: "help yourselves, gentlemen." mr. power stood up to officiate, offeringher his chair. she declined it, saying she was ironing downstairs, and,after having exchanged a nod

with 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!" saidmrs. kernan tartly. her husband called after her: "nothing for poor little hubby!" he assumed such a comical face and voice thatthe distribution of the bottles of stout took place amid general merriment. the gentlemen drank from their glasses, setthe glasses again on the

table and paused. then mr. cunningham turnedtowards mr. power and said casually: "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 most convenient place." "but we mustn't be late," said mr. power earnestly,"because it is sure to 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 waitedto see whether he would be taken into his friends' confidence. then heasked: "what's in the wind?" "o, it's nothing," said mr. cunningham. "it'sonly a little matter that we're arranging about for thursday." "the opera, is it?" said mr. kernan.

"no, no," said mr. cunningham in an evasivetone, "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 tomake a retreat." "yes, that's it," said mr. cunningham, "jackand i and m'coy here--we're all going to wash the pot." he uttered the metaphor with a certain homelyenergy and, encouraged by his own voice, proceeded:

"you see, we may as well all admit we're anice collection of scoundrels, one and all. i say, one and all,"he added with gruff charity and turning to mr. power. "own upnow!" "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 turnedsuddenly to the invalid and said: "d'ye know what, tom, has just occurred tome? you night join in and

we'd have a four-handed reel." "good idea," said mr. power. "the four ofus together." mr. kernan was silent. the proposal conveyedvery little meaning to his mind, but, understanding that some spiritualagencies were about to concern themselves on his behalf, he thoughthe owed it to his dignity to show a stiff neck. he took no part in theconversation for a long while, but listened, with an air of calm enmity,while his friends discussed the jesuits. "i haven't such a bad opinion of the jesuits,"he said, intervening at

length. "they're an educated order. i believethey mean well, too." "they're the grandest order in the church,tom," said mr. cunningham, with enthusiasm. "the general of the jesuitsstands next to the pope." "there's no mistake about it," said mr. m'coy,"if you want a thing well done and no flies about, you go to ajesuit. they're the boyos have influence. i'll tell you a case in point...." "the jesuits are a fine body of men," saidmr. power. "it's a curious thing," said mr. cunningham,"about the jesuit order. every other order of the church had to bereformed at some time or other

but 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'shistory." "look at their church, too," said mr. power."look at the congregation they 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 havea feeling for them. it's some of those secular priests, ignorant, bumptious----"

"they're all good men," said mr. cunningham,"each in his own way. the irish priesthood is honoured all the worldover." "o yes," said mr. power. "not like some of the other priesthoods onthe 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 the world all this time and seen most sides ofit without being a judge of character."

the gentlemen drank again, one following another'sexample. mr. kernan seemed to be weighing something in his mind.he was impressed. he had a high opinion of mr. cunningham as a judgeof character and as a reader of faces. he asked for particulars. "o, it's just a retreat, you know," said mr.cunningham. "father purdon is 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. cunninghamstoutly. "fine, jolly

fellow! he's a man of the world like ourselves." "ah,... yes. i think i know him. rather redface; tall." "that's the man." "and tell me, martin.... is he a good preacher?" "munno.... it's not exactly a sermon, youknow. it's just kind of a friendly talk, you know, in a common-senseway." 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. did

you ever hear him, tom?" "did i ever hear him!" said the invalid, nettled."rather! i heard him...." "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. onlysometimes, they say, he didn'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 his

discourse now. crofton and i were in the backof the... pit, you know... the----" "the body," said mr. cunningham. "yes, in the back near the door. i forgetnow what.... o yes, it was on the pope, the late pope. i remember itwell. upon my word it was magnificent, the style of the oratory. andhis voice! god! hadn't he a voice! the prisoner of the vatican, he calledhim. i remember crofton saying 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 damneddecent orangeman too. we went into butler's in moore street--faith,i was genuinely moved, tell you the god's truth--and i remember well his verywords. 'kernan,' he said, 'we worship at different altars, he said, butour belief is the same.' struck me as very well put." "there's a good deal in that," said mr. power."there used always to be crowds of protestants in the chapel wherefather 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 believein the pope and in the mother of god." "but, of course," said mr. cunningham quietlyand effectively, "our religion is the religion, the old, originalfaith." "not a doubt of it," said mr. kernan warmly. mrs. kernan came to the door of the bedroomand 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 fair trailing moustache was repeated in the faireyebrows looped above pleasantly astonished eyes. mr. fogarty wasa modest grocer. he had failed in business in a licensed house inthe city because his financial condition had constrained him to tie himselfto second-class distillers and brewers. he had opened a small shop onglasnevin road where, he flattered himself, his manners would ingratiatehim with the housewives

of the district. he bore himself with a certaingrace, complimented little children and spoke with a neat enunciation.he was not without culture. mr. fogarty brought a gift with him, a half-pintof special whisky. he inquired politely for mr. kernan, placed hisgift on the table and sat down with the company on equal terms. mr.kernan appreciated the gift all the more since he was aware that therewas a small account for groceries 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 rinsedand five small measures of whisky were poured out. this newinfluence enlivened the conversation. mr. fogarty, sitting on a smallarea of the chair, was specially interested. "pope leo xiii," said mr. cunningham, "wasone of the lights of the age. his great idea, you know, was the union ofthe latin and greek churches. that was the aim of his life." "i often heard he was one of the most intellectualmen in europe," said mr. power. "i mean, apart from his being pope."

"so he was," said mr. cunningham, "if notthe most so. his motto, you know, as pope, was lux upon lux--light uponlight." "no, no," said mr. fogarty eagerly. "i thinkyou're wrong there. it was lux 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. and pius ix his predecessor's motto was crux uponcrux--that is, cross upon cross--to show the difference between theirtwo pontificates." the inference was allowed. mr. cunninghamcontinued.

"pope leo, you know, was a great scholar anda poet." "he had a strong face," said mr. kernan. "yes," said mr. cunningham. "he wrote latinpoetry." "is that so?" said mr. fogarty. mr. m'coy tasted his whisky contentedly andshook his head with a double intention, saying: "that's no joke, i can tell you." "we didn't learn that, tom," said mr. power,following mr. m'coy's example, "when we went to the penny-a-weekschool."

"there was many a good man went to the penny-a-weekschool with a sod of turf under his oxter," said mr. kernansententiously. "the old system was the best: plain honest education. noneof 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 poems was on the invention of the photograph--inlatin, 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 thephotograph wonderful when you come to think of it?" "o, of course," said mr. power, "great mindscan see things." "as the poet says: great minds are very nearto madness," said mr. fogarty. mr. kernan seemed to be troubled in mind.he made an effort to recall the protestant theology on some thorny pointsand in the end addressed

mr. cunningham. "tell me, martin," he said. "weren't someof the popes--of course, not our present man, or his predecessor, but someof the old popes--not exactly... you know... up to the knocker?" there was a silence. mr. cunningham said "o, of course, there were some bad lots...but the astonishing thing is this. not one of them, not the biggestdrunkard, not the most... out-and-out ruffian, not one of them everpreached ex cathedra a word of false doctrine. now isn't that an astonishingthing?"

"that is," said mr. kernan. "yes, because when the pope speaks ex cathedra,"mr. fogarty explained, "he is infallible." "o, i know about the infallibility of thepope. i remember i was younger then.... or was it that----?" mr. fogarty interrupted. he took up the bottleand helped the others to a little more. mr. m'coy, seeing that therewas not enough to go round, pleaded that he had not finished his firstmeasure. the others accepted under protest. the light music of whisky fallinginto glasses made an

agreeable interlude. "what's that you were saying, tom?" askedmr. m'coy. "papal infallibility," said mr. cunningham,"that was the greatest scene in 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 cardinalsand archbishops and bishops there were two men who held out againstit while the others were all for it. the whole conclave except thesetwo was unanimous. no! they

wouldn't have it!" "ha!" said mr. m'coy. "and they were a german cardinal by the nameof dolling... or dowling... or----" "dowling was no german, and that's a surefive," said mr. power, "well, this great german cardinal, whateverhis name was, was one; and the other was john machale." "what?" cried mr. kernan. "is it john of tuam?" "are you sure of that now?" asked mr. fogartydubiously. "i thought it

was some italian or american." "john of tuam," repeated mr. cunningham, "wasthe man." he drank and the other gentlemen followedhis lead. then he resumed: "there they were at it, all the cardinalsand bishops and archbishops from all the ends of the earth and these twofighting dog and devil until at last the pope himself stood up anddeclared infallibility a dogma of the church ex cathedra. on the verymoment john machale, who had been arguing and arguing against it, stoodup and shouted out with the voice of a lion: 'credo!'"

"i believe!" said mr. fogarty. "credo!" said mr. cunningham. "that showedthe faith he had. he submitted the moment the pope spoke." "and what about dowling?" asked mr. m'coy. "the german cardinal wouldn't submit. he leftthe church." mr. cunningham's words had built up the vastimage of the church in the minds of his hearers. his deep, raucous voicehad thrilled them as it uttered the word of belief and submission.when mrs. kernan came into the room, drying her hands she came into asolemn company. she did not

disturb the silence, but leaned over the railat the foot of the bed. "i once saw john machale," said mr. kernan,"and i'll never forget it as long 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'sstatue. edmund dwyer gray was speaking, blathering away, and herewas this old fellow, crabbed-looking old chap, looking at him fromunder his bushy eyebrows."

mr. kernan knitted his brows and, loweringhis head like an angry bull, glared at his wife. "god!" he exclaimed, resuming his naturalface, "i never saw such an eye in a man's head. it was as much as to say:i have you properly taped, my lad. he had an eye like a hawk." "none of the grays was any good," said mr.power. there was a pause again. mr. power turnedto mrs. kernan and said with abrupt joviality: "well, mrs. kernan, we're going to make yourman here a good holy pious

and god-fearing roman catholic." he swept his arm round the company inclusively. "we're all going to make a retreat togetherand confess our sins--and god knows we want it badly." "i don't mind," said mr. kernan, smiling alittle nervously. mrs. kernan thought it would be wiser to concealher satisfaction. so she said: "i pity the poor priest that has to listento 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 his works and pomps." "get behind me, satan!" said mr. fogarty,laughing and looking at the others. mr. power said nothing. he felt completelyout-generalled. but a pleased expression flickered across his face.

"all we have to do," said mr. cunningham,"is to stand up with lighted candles in our hands and renew our baptismalvows." "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 theretreat business and confession, and... all that business. but...no candles! no, damn it all, i bar the candles!"

he shook his head with farcical gravity. "listen to that!" said his wife. "i bar the candles," said mr. kernan, consciousof having created an effect on his audience and continuing to shakehis head to and fro. "i bar the magic-lantern business." everyone laughed heartily. "there's a nice catholic for you!" said hiswife. "no candles!" repeated mr. kernan obdurately."that's off!" the transept of the jesuit church in gardinerstreet was almost full;

and still at every moment gentlemen enteredfrom the side door and, directed by the lay-brother, walked on tiptoealong the aisles until they found seating accommodation. the gentlemenwere all well dressed and orderly. the light of the lamps of thechurch fell upon an assembly of black clothes and white collars, relievedhere and there by tweeds, on dark mottled pillars of green marble andon lugubrious canvases. the gentlemen sat in the benches, having hitchedtheir trousers slightly above their knees and laid their hats in security.they sat well back and gazed formally at the distant speck ofred light which was suspended

before the high altar. in one of the benches near the pulpit satmr. cunningham and mr. kernan. in the bench behind sat mr. m'coy alone: andin the bench behind him sat mr. power and mr. fogarty. mr. m'coy had triedunsuccessfully to find a place in the bench with the others, and, whenthe party had settled down in the form of a quincunx, he had tried unsuccessfullyto make comic remarks. as these had not been well received,he had desisted. even he was sensible of the decorous atmosphere andeven he began to respond to the religious stimulus. in a whisper, mr.cunningham drew mr. kernan's

attention to mr. harford, the moneylender,who sat some distance off, and to mr. fanning, the registration agentand mayor maker of the city, who was sitting immediately under the pulpitbeside one of the newly elected councillors of the ward. to the rightsat old michael grimes, the owner of three pawnbroker's shops, anddan hogan's nephew, who was up for the job in the town clerk's office.farther in front sat mr. hendrick, the chief reporter of the freeman'sjournal, and poor o'carroll, an old friend of mr. kernan's,who had been at one time a considerable commercial figure. gradually,as he recognised familiar

faces, mr. kernan began to feel more at home.his hat, which had been rehabilitated by his wife, rested upon hisknees. once or twice he pulled down his cuffs with one hand whilehe held the brim of his hat lightly, but firmly, with the other hand. a powerful-looking figure, the upper partof which was draped with a white surplice, was observed to be strugglinginto the pulpit. simultaneously the congregation unsettled,produced handkerchiefs and knelt upon them with care. mr. kernan followedthe general example. the priest's figure now stood upright in the pulpit,two-thirds of its bulk,

crowned by a massive red face, appearing abovethe balustrade. father purdon knelt down, turned towards thered speck of light and, covering his face with his hands, prayed.after an interval, he uncovered his face and rose. the congregationrose also and settled again on its benches. mr. kernan restoredhis hat to its original position on his knee and presented an attentiveface to the preacher. the preacher turned back each wide sleeveof his surplice with an elaborate large gesture and slowly surveyedthe array of faces. then he "for the children of this world are wiserin their generation than the

children of light. wherefore make unto yourselvesfriends out of the mammon of iniquity so that when you die theymay receive you into everlasting dwellings." father purdon developed the text with resonantassurance. it was one of the most difficult texts in all the scriptures,he said, to interpret properly. it was a text which might seem tothe casual observer at variance with the lofty morality elsewherepreached by jesus christ. but, he told his hearers, the text had seemedto him specially adapted for the guidance of those whose lot it wasto lead the life of the world

and who yet wished to lead that life not inthe manner of worldlings. it was a text for business men and professionalmen. jesus christ, with his divine understanding of every cranny of ourhuman nature, understood that all men were not called to the religiouslife, that by far the vast majority were forced to live in the world,and, to a certain extent, for the world: and in this sentence he designedto give them a word of counsel, setting before them as exemplarsin the religious life those very worshippers of mammon who were of allmen the least solicitous in matters religious.

he told his hearers that he was there thatevening for no terrifying, no extravagant purpose; but as a man of theworld speaking to his fellow-men. he came to speak to business menand he would speak to them in a businesslike way. if he might use themetaphor, he said, he was their spiritual accountant; and he wishedeach and every one of his hearers to open his books, the books of hisspiritual life, and see if they tallied accurately with conscience. jesus christ was not a hard taskmaster. heunderstood our little failings, understood the weakness of our poorfallen nature, understood

the temptations of this life. we might havehad, we all had from time to time, our temptations: we might have, we allhad, our failings. but one thing only, he said, he would ask of his hearers.and that was: to be straight and manly with god. if their accountstallied in every point to say: "well, i have verified my accounts. i findall well." but if, as might happen, there were some discrepancies,to admit the truth, to be frank and say like a man: "well, i have looked into my accounts. i findthis wrong and this wrong.

but, with god's grace, i will rectify thisand this. i will set right my accounts." the dead lily, the caretaker's daughter, was literallyrun off her feet. hardly had she brought one gentleman into the littlepantry behind the office on the ground floor and helped him off withhis overcoat than the wheezy hall-door bell clanged again and she had toscamper along the bare hallway to let in another guest. it was wellfor her she had not to attend to the ladies also. but miss kate andmiss julia had thought

of that and had converted the bathroom upstairsinto a ladies' dressing-room. miss kate and miss julia werethere, gossiping and laughing and fussing, walking after each otherto the head of the stairs, peering down over the banisters andcalling down to lily to ask her who had come. it was always a great affair, the misses morkan'sannual dance. everybody who knew them came to it, membersof the family, old friends of the family, the members of julia's choir,any of kate's pupils that were grown up enough, and even some of maryjane's pupils too. never

once had it fallen flat. for years and yearsit had gone off in splendid style, as long as anyone could remember; eversince kate and julia, after the death of their brother pat, hadleft the house in stoney batter and taken mary jane, their only niece,to live with them in the dark, gaunt house on usher's island, the upperpart of which they had rented from mr. fulham, the corn-factor onthe ground floor. that was a good thirty years ago if it was a day. maryjane, who was then a little girl in short clothes, was now the main propof the household, for she had the organ in haddington road. she hadbeen through the academy

and gave a pupils' concert every year in theupper room of the antient concert rooms. many of her pupils belongedto the better-class families on the kingstown and dalkey line. old as theywere, her aunts also did their share. julia, though she was quite grey,was still the leading soprano in adam and eve's, and kate, beingtoo feeble to go about much, gave music lessons to beginners on the oldsquare piano in the back room. lily, the caretaker's daughter, didhousemaid's work for them. though their life was modest, they believedin eating well; the best of everything: diamond-bone sirloins, three-shillingtea and the best

bottled stout. but lily seldom made a mistakein the orders, so that she got on well with her three mistresses. theywere fussy, that was all. but the only thing they would not stand wasback answers. of course, they had good reason to be fussyon such a night. and then it was long after ten o'clock and yet there wasno sign of gabriel and his wife. besides they were dreadfully afraidthat freddy malins might turn up screwed. they would not wish for worldsthat any of mary jane's pupils should see him under the influence;and when he was like that it was sometimes very hard to manage him. freddymalins always came late,

but they wondered what could be keeping gabriel:and that was what brought them every two minutes to the banistersto ask lily had gabriel or freddy come. "o, mr. conroy," said lily to gabriel whenshe opened the door for him, "miss kate and miss julia thought you werenever coming. good-night, mrs. conroy." "i'll engage they did," said gabriel, "butthey forget that my wife here takes three mortal hours to dress herself." he stood on the mat, scraping the snow fromhis goloshes, while lily led

his wife to the foot of the stairs and calledout: "miss kate, here's mrs. conroy." kate and julia came toddling down the darkstairs at once. both of them kissed gabriel's wife, said she must be perishedalive, and asked was gabriel 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 vigorouslywhile the three women went upstairs, laughing, to the ladies' dressing-room.a light fringe of snow

lay like a cape on the shoulders of his overcoatand like toecaps on the toes of his goloshes; and, as the buttonsof his overcoat slipped with a squeaking noise through the snow-stiffenedfrieze, a cold, fragrant air from out-of-doors escaped from crevices andfolds. "is it snowing again, mr. conroy?" asked lily. she had preceded him into the pantry to helphim off with his overcoat. gabriel smiled at the three syllables shehad given his surname and glanced at her. she was a slim, growing girl,pale in complexion and with hay-coloured hair. the gas in the pantrymade her look still paler.

gabriel had known her when she was a childand used to sit on the lowest step nursing a rag doll. "yes, lily," he answered, "and i think we'rein for a night of it." he looked up at the pantry ceiling, whichwas shaking with the stamping and shuffling of feet on the floor above,listened for a moment to the piano and then glanced at the girl, whowas folding his overcoat carefully at the end of a shelf. "tell me. lily," he said in a friendly tone,"do you still go to school?"

"o no, sir," she answered. "i'm done schoolingthis year and more." "o, then," said gabriel gaily, "i supposewe'll be going to your wedding one of these fine days with your young man,eh?" the girl glanced back at him over her shoulderand said with great bitterness: "the men that is now is only all palaver andwhat they can get out of you." gabriel coloured, as if he felt he had madea mistake and, without looking at her, kicked off his goloshes andflicked actively with his

muffler at his patent-leather shoes. he was a stout, tallish young man. the highcolour of his cheeks pushed upwards even to his forehead, whereit scattered itself in a few formless patches of pale red; and on hishairless face there scintillated restlessly the polished lensesand the bright gilt rims of the glasses which screened his delicate andrestless eyes. his glossy black hair was parted in the middle and brushedin a long curve behind his ears where it curled slightly beneaththe groove left by his hat. when he had flicked lustre into his shoeshe stood up and pulled his

waistcoat down more tightly on his plump body.then he took a coin rapidly 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't take it." "christmas-time! christmas-time!" said gabriel,almost trotting to the stairs 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 untilthe waltz should finish, listening to the skirts that swept againstit and to the shuffling of feet. he was still discomposed by the girl'sbitter and sudden retort. it had cast a gloom over him which he triedto dispel by arranging his cuffs and the bows of his tie. he then tookfrom his waistcoat pocket a little paper and glanced at the headings hehad made for his speech. he was undecided about the lines from robertbrowning, for he feared they

would be above the heads of his hearers. somequotation that they would recognise from shakespeare or from the melodieswould be better. the indelicate clacking of the men's heels andthe shuffling of their soles reminded him that their grade of culture differedfrom his. he would only make himself ridiculous by quoting poetryto them which they could not understand. they would think thathe was airing his superior education. he would fail with them just ashe had failed with the girl in the pantry. he had taken up a wrong tone.his whole speech was a mistake from first to last, an utter failure.

just then his aunts and his wife came outof the ladies' dressing-room. his aunts were two small, plainly dressedold women. aunt julia was an inch or so the taller. her hair, drawn lowover the tops of her ears, was grey; and grey also, with darker shadows,was her large flaccid face. though she was stout in build and stooderect, her slow eyes and parted lips gave her the appearance of a womanwho did not know where she was or where she was going. aunt katewas more vivacious. her face, healthier than her sister's, was allpuckers and creases, like a shrivelled red apple, and her hair, braidedin the same old-fashioned

way, had not lost its ripe nut colour. they both kissed gabriel frankly. he was theirfavourite nephew, the son of their dead elder sister, ellen, who hadmarried t. j. conroy of the port and docks. "gretta tells me you're not going to takea cab back to monkstown tonight, gabriel," said aunt kate. "no," said gabriel, turning to his wife, "wehad quite enough of that last year, hadn't we? don't you remember,aunt kate, what a cold gretta got out of it? cab windows rattling all theway, and the east wind

blowing in after we passed merrion. very jollyit was. gretta caught a dreadful cold." aunt kate frowned severely and nodded herhead at every word. "quite right, gabriel, quite right," she said."you can't be too careful." "but as for gretta there," said gabriel, "she'dwalk home in the snow if she were let." mrs. conroy laughed. "don't mind him, aunt kate," she said. "he'sreally an awful bother,

what with green shades for tom's eyes at nightand making him do the dumb-bells, and forcing eva to eat the stirabout.the poor child! and she simply hates the sight of it!... o, butyou'll never guess what he makes me wear now!" she broke out into a peal of laughter andglanced at her husband, whose admiring and happy eyes had been wanderingfrom her dress to her face and hair. the two aunts laughed heartily,too, for gabriel's solicitude was a standing joke with them. "goloshes!" said mrs. conroy. "that's thelatest. whenever it's wet

underfoot i must put on my galoshes. tonighteven, he wanted me to put them on, but i wouldn't. the next thing he'llbuy me will be a diving suit." gabriel laughed nervously and patted his tiereassuringly, while aunt kate nearly doubled herself, so heartily didshe enjoy the joke. the smile soon faded from aunt julia's face andher mirthless eyes were directed towards her nephew's face. aftera pause she asked: "and what are goloshes, gabriel?" "goloshes, julia!" exclaimed her sister "goodnessme, don't you know

what 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 ifhe were slightly angered: "it's nothing very wonderful, but gretta thinksit very funny because she says the word reminds her of christy minstrels." "but tell me, gabriel," said aunt kate, withbrisk 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 the gresham." "to be sure," said aunt kate, "by far thebest thing to do. and the children, gretta, you're not anxious aboutthem?" "o, for one night," said mrs. conroy. "besides,bessie will look after them." "to be sure," said aunt kate again. "whata comfort it is to have a girl like that, one you can depend on! there'sthat lily, i'm sure i don't

know what has come over her lately. she'snot the girl she was at all." gabriel was about to ask his aunt some questionson this point, but she broke off suddenly to gaze after her sister,who had wandered down the stairs 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 announced blandly: "here's freddy."

at the same moment a clapping of hands anda final flourish of the pianist told that the waltz had ended. thedrawing-room door was opened from within and some couples came out. auntkate drew gabriel aside hurriedly and whispered into his ear: "slip down, gabriel, like a good fellow andsee if he's all right, and don't let him up if he's screwed. i'm surehe's screwed. i'm sure he gabriel went to the stairs and listened overthe banisters. he could hear two persons talking in the pantry. thenhe recognised freddy malins' laugh. he went down the stairs noisily.

"it's such a relief," said aunt kate to mrs.conroy, "that gabriel is here. i always feel easier in my mind whenhe's here.... julia, there's miss daly and miss power will take some refreshment.thanks for your beautiful waltz, miss daly. it made lovelytime." a tall wizen-faced man, with a stiff grizzledmoustache and swarthy skin, who was passing out with his partner,said: "and may we have some refreshment, too, missmorkan?" "julia," said aunt kate summarily, "and here'smr. browne and miss furlong. take them in, julia, with miss dalyand miss power."

"i'm the man for the ladies," said mr. browne,pursing his lips until his moustache bristled and smiling in allhis wrinkles. "you know, miss morkan, the reason they are so fond of meis----" he did not finish his sentence, but, seeingthat aunt kate was out of earshot, at once led the three young ladiesinto the back room. the middle of the room was occupied by two squaretables placed end to end, and on these aunt julia and the caretakerwere straightening and smoothing a large cloth. on the sideboardwere arrayed dishes and plates, and glasses and bundles of knivesand forks and spoons. the top

of the closed square piano served also asa sideboard for viands and sweets. at a smaller sideboard in onecorner two young men were standing, drinking hop-bitters. mr. browne led his charges thither and invitedthem all, in jest, to some ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet.as they said they never took anything strong, he opened three bottles oflemonade for them. then he asked one of the young men to move aside,and, taking hold of the decanter, filled out for himself a goodlymeasure of whisky. the young men eyed him respectfully while he took atrial sip.

"god help me," he said, smiling, "it's thedoctor's orders." his wizened face broke into a broader smile,and the three young ladies laughed in musical echo to his pleasantry,swaying their bodies to and fro, with nervous jerks of their shoulders.the boldest said: "o, now, mr. browne, i'm sure the doctor neverordered anything of the kind." mr. browne took another sip of his whiskyand said, with sidling mimicry: "well, you see, i'm like the famous mrs. cassidy,who is reported to

have said: 'now, mary grimes, if i don't takeit, make me take it, for i feel i want it.'" his hot face had leaned forward a little tooconfidentially and he had assumed a very low dublin accent so that theyoung ladies, with one instinct, received his speech in silence.miss furlong, who was one of mary jane's pupils, asked miss daly whatwas the name of the pretty waltz she had played; and mr. browne, seeingthat he was ignored, turned promptly to the two young men who were moreappreciative. a red-faced young woman, dressed in pansy,came into the room, excitedly

clapping 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," saidmary jane. "mr. kerrigan, will you take miss power? miss furlong, mayi 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 ifthey might have the

pleasure, and mary jane turned to miss daly. "o, miss daly, you're really awfully good,after playing for the last two dances, but really we're so short of ladiestonight." "i don't mind in the least, miss morkan." "but i've a nice partner for you, mr. bartelld'arcy, the tenor. i'll get him to sing later on. all dublin is ravingabout him." "lovely voice, lovely voice!" said aunt kate. as the piano had twice begun the prelude tothe first figure mary jane led her recruits quickly from the room. theyhad hardly gone when aunt

julia wandered slowly into the room, lookingbehind her at something. "what is the matter, julia?" asked aunt kateanxiously. "who is it?" julia, who was carrying in a column of table-napkins,turned to her sister and said, simply, as if the questionhad surprised her: "it's only freddy, kate, and gabriel withhim." in fact right behind her gabriel could beseen piloting freddy malins across the landing. the latter, a young manof about forty, was of gabriel's size and build, with very roundshoulders. his face was fleshy and pallid, touched with colour only at thethick hanging lobes of his

ears and at the wide wings of his nose. hehad coarse features, a blunt nose, a convex and receding brow, tumidand protruded lips. his heavy-lidded eyes and the disorder of hisscanty hair made him look sleepy. he was laughing heartily in a highkey at a story which he had been telling gabriel on the stairs and atthe same time rubbing the knuckles of his left fist backwards and forwardsinto his left eye. "good-evening, freddy," said aunt julia. freddy malins bade the misses morkan good-eveningin what seemed an offhand fashion by reason of the habitualcatch in his voice and then,

seeing that mr. browne was grinning at himfrom the sideboard, crossed the room on rather shaky legs and began torepeat in an undertone the story he had just told to gabriel. "he's not so bad, is he?" said aunt kate togabriel. gabriel's brows were dark but he raised themquickly and answered: "o, no, hardly noticeable." "now, isn't he a terrible fellow!" she said."and his poor mother made him take the pledge on new year's eve. butcome on, gabriel, into the drawing-room."

before leaving the room with gabriel she signalledto mr. browne by frowning and shaking her forefinger in warningto and fro. mr. browne nodded in answer and, when she had gone, saidto freddy malins: "now, then, teddy, i'm going to fill you outa good glass of lemonade just to buck you up." freddy malins, who was nearing the climaxof his story, waved the offer aside impatiently but mr. browne, having firstcalled freddy malins' attention to a disarray in his dress, filledout and handed him a full glass of lemonade. freddy malins' lefthand accepted the

glass mechanically, his right hand being engagedin the mechanical readjustment of his dress. mr. browne, whoseface was once more wrinkling with mirth, poured out for himselfa glass of whisky while freddy malins exploded, before he had wellreached the climax of his story, in a kink of high-pitched bronchiticlaughter and, setting down his untasted and overflowing glass, beganto rub the knuckles of his left fist backwards and forwards into hisleft eye, repeating words of his last phrase as well as his fit of laughterwould allow him. gabriel could not listen while mary jane wasplaying her academy piece,

full of runs and difficult passages, to thehushed drawing-room. he liked music but the piece she was playinghad no melody for him and he doubted whether it had any melody for theother listeners, though they had begged mary jane to play something. fouryoung men, who had come from the refreshment-room to stand in thedoorway at the sound of the piano, had gone away quietly in couples aftera few minutes. the only persons who seemed to follow the music weremary jane herself, her hands racing along the key-board or lifted fromit at the pauses like those of a priestess in momentary imprecation, andaunt kate standing at her

elbow to turn the page. gabriel's eyes, irritated by the floor, whichglittered with beeswax under the heavy chandelier, wandered to thewall above the piano. a picture of the balcony scene in romeo andjuliet hung there and beside it was a picture of the two murdered princesin the tower which aunt julia had worked in red, blue and brown woolswhen she was a girl. probably in the school they had gone to asgirls that kind of work had been taught for one year. his mother had workedfor him as a birthday present a waistcoat of purple tabinet, withlittle foxes' heads upon it,

lined with brown satin and having round mulberrybuttons. it was strange that his mother had had no musical talentthough aunt kate used to call her the brains carrier of the morkan family.both she and julia had always seemed a little proud of their seriousand matronly sister. her photograph stood before the pierglass. sheheld an open book on her knees and was pointing out something in itto constantine who, dressed in a man-o-war suit, lay at her feet. it wasshe who had chosen the name of her sons for she was very sensible of thedignity of family life. thanks to her, constantine was now seniorcurate in balbrigan and,

thanks to her, gabriel himself had taken hisdegree in the royal university. a shadow passed over his faceas he remembered her sullen opposition to his marriage. some slightingphrases she had used still rankled in his memory; she had once spokenof gretta as being country cute and that was not true of gretta at all.it was gretta who had nursed her during all her last long illnessin their house at monkstown. he knew that mary jane must be near the endof her piece for she was playing again the opening melody with runsof scales after every bar and while he waited for the end the resentmentdied down in his heart.

the piece ended with a trill of octaves inthe treble and a final deep octave in the bass. great applause greetedmary jane as, blushing and rolling up her music nervously, she escapedfrom the room. the most vigorous clapping came from the four youngmen in the doorway who had gone away to the refreshment-room at the beginningof the piece but had come back when the piano had stopped. lancers were arranged. gabriel found himselfpartnered with miss ivors. she was a frank-mannered talkative young lady,with a freckled face and prominent brown eyes. she did not wear a low-cutbodice and the large

brooch which was fixed in the front of hercollar bore on it an irish device and motto. when they had taken their places she saidabruptly: "i have a crow to pluck with you." "with me?" said gabriel. she nodded her head gravely. "what is it?" asked gabriel, smiling at hersolemn manner. "who is g. c.?" answered miss ivors, turningher eyes upon him. gabriel coloured and was about to knit hisbrows, as if he did not

understand, when she said bluntly: "o, innocent amy! i have found out that youwrite for the daily express. now, aren't you ashamed of yourself?" "why should i be ashamed of myself?" askedgabriel, blinking his eyes and trying to smile. "well, i'm ashamed of you," said miss ivorsfrankly. "to say you'd write for a paper like that. i didn't think youwere a west briton." a look of perplexity appeared on gabriel'sface. it was true that he wrote a literary column every wednesday inthe daily express, for which

he was paid fifteen shillings. but that didnot make him a west briton surely. the books he received for review werealmost more welcome than the paltry cheque. he loved to feel the coversand turn over the pages of newly printed books. nearly every day whenhis teaching in the college was ended he used to wander down thequays to the second-hand booksellers, to hickey's on bachelor's walk,to web's or massey's on aston's quay, or to o'clohissey's in the by-street.he did not know how to meet her charge. he wanted to say thatliterature was above politics. but they were friends of many years' standingand their careers had been

parallel, first at the university and thenas teachers: he could not risk a grandiose phrase with her. he continuedblinking his eyes and trying to smile and murmured lamely that hesaw nothing political in writing reviews of books. when their turn to cross had come he was stillperplexed and inattentive. miss ivors promptly took hishand in a warm grasp and said in a soft friendly tone: "of course, i was only joking. come, we crossnow." when they were together again she spoke ofthe university question and

gabriel felt more at ease. a friend of hershad shown her his review of browning's poems. that was how she hadfound out the secret: but she liked the review immensely. then she saidsuddenly: "o, mr. conroy, will you come for an excursionto the aran isles this summer? we're going to stay there a wholemonth. it will be splendid out in the atlantic. you ought to come. mr.clancy is coming, and mr. kilkelly and kathleen kearney. it would besplendid for gretta too if she'd come. she's from connacht, isn't she?" "her people are," said gabriel shortly.

"but you will come, won't you?" said missivors, laying her warm hand eagerly on his arm. "the fact is," said gabriel, "i have justarranged to go----" "go where?" asked miss ivors. "well, you know, every year i go for a cyclingtour with some fellows and so----" "but where?" asked miss ivors. "well, we usually go to france or belgiumor perhaps germany," said gabriel awkwardly.

"and why do you go to france and belgium,"said miss ivors, "instead of visiting your own land?" "well," said gabriel, "it's partly to keepin touch with the languages and partly for a change." "and haven't you your own language to keepin touch with--irish?" asked miss ivors. "well," said gabriel, "if it comes to that,you know, irish is not my language." their neighbours had turned to listen to thecross-examination. gabriel

glanced right and left nervously and triedto keep his good humour under the ordeal which was making a blush invadehis forehead. "and haven't you your own land to visit,"continued miss ivors, "that you know nothing of, your own people, andyour own country?" "o, to tell you the truth," retorted gabrielsuddenly, "i'm sick of my own country, sick of it!" "why?" asked miss ivors. gabriel did not answer for his retort hadheated him. "why?" repeated miss ivors.

they had to go visiting together and, as hehad not answered her, miss ivors said warmly: "of course, you've no answer." gabriel tried to cover his agitation by takingpart in the dance with great energy. he avoided her eyes for he hadseen a sour expression on her face. but when they met in the long chainhe was surprised to feel his hand firmly pressed. she looked at himfrom under her brows for a moment quizzically until he smiled. then,just as the chain was about to start again, she stood on tiptoe and whisperedinto his ear:

"west briton!" when the lancers were over gabriel went awayto a remote corner of the room where freddy malins' mother was sitting.she was a stout feeble old woman with white hair. her voice had a catchin it like her son's and she stuttered slightly. she had been toldthat freddy had come and that he was nearly all right. gabriel asked herwhether she had had a good crossing. she lived with her married daughterin glasgow and came to dublin on a visit once a year. she answeredplacidly that she had had a beautiful crossing and that the captain hadbeen most attentive to her.

she spoke also of the beautiful house herdaughter kept in glasgow, and of all the friends they had there. while hertongue rambled on gabriel tried to banish from his mind all memory ofthe unpleasant incident with miss ivors. of course the girl or woman, orwhatever she was, was an enthusiast but there was a time for all things.perhaps he ought not to have answered her like that. but she hadno right to call him a west briton before people, even in joke. she hadtried to make him ridiculous before people, heckling him and staring athim with her rabbit's eyes. he saw his wife making her way towards himthrough the waltzing couples.

when she reached him she said into his ear: "gabriel, aunt kate wants to know won't youcarve the goose as usual. miss daly will carve the ham and i'll do thepudding." "all right," said gabriel. "she's sending in the younger ones first assoon as this waltz is over so that we'll have the table to ourselves." "were you dancing?" asked gabriel. "of course i was. didn't you see me? whatrow had you with molly ivors?" "no row. why? did she say so?"

"something like that. i'm trying to get thatmr. d'arcy to sing. he's full of conceit, i think." "there was no row," said gabriel moodily,"only she wanted me to go for a trip to the west of ireland and i said iwouldn't." his wife clasped her hands excitedly and gavea little jump. "o, do go, gabriel," she cried. "i'd loveto see galway again." "you can go if you like," said gabriel coldly. she looked at him for a moment, then turnedto mrs. malins and said: "there's a nice husband for you, mrs. malins."

while she was threading her way back acrossthe room mrs. malins, without adverting to the interruption, wenton to tell gabriel what beautiful places there were in scotland andbeautiful scenery. her son-in-law brought them every year to thelakes and they used to go fishing. her son-in-law was a splendid fisher.one day he caught a beautiful big fish and the man in the hotelcooked it for their dinner. gabriel hardly heard what she said. now thatsupper was coming near he began to think again about his speech andabout the quotation. when he saw freddy malins coming across the room tovisit his mother gabriel

left the chair free for him and retired intothe embrasure of the window. the room had already cleared and fromthe back room came the clatter of plates and knives. those who stillremained in the drawing-room seemed tired of dancing and wereconversing quietly in little groups. gabriel's warm trembling fingers tappedthe cold pane of the window. how cool it must be outside! how pleasantit would be to walk out alone, first along by the river and thenthrough the park! the snow would be lying on the branches of the treesand forming a bright cap on the top of the wellington monument. how muchmore pleasant it would be

there than at the supper-table! he ran over the headings of his speech: irishhospitality, sad memories, the three graces, paris, the quotation frombrowning. he repeated to himself a phrase he had written in his review:"one feels that one is listening to a thought-tormented music." missivors had praised the review. was she sincere? had she really anylife of her own behind all her propagandism? there had never been anyill-feeling between them until that night. it unnerved him to thinkthat she would be at the supper-table, looking up at him while he spokewith her critical

quizzing eyes. perhaps she would not be sorryto see him fail in his speech. an idea came into his mind and gavehim courage. he would say, alluding to aunt kate and aunt julia:"ladies and gentlemen, the generation which is now on the wane amongus may have had its faults but for my part i think it had certain qualitiesof hospitality, of humour, of humanity, which the new and very seriousand hypereducated generation that is growing up around us seems to me tolack." very good: that was one for miss ivors. what did he care thathis aunts were only two ignorant old women?

a murmur in the room attracted his attention.mr. browne was advancing from the door, gallantly escorting aunt julia,who leaned upon his arm, smiling and hanging her head. an irregularmusketry of applause escorted her also as far as the piano and then, asmary jane seated herself on the stool, and aunt julia, no longer smiling,half turned so as to pitch her voice fairly into the room, graduallyceased. gabriel recognised the prelude. it was that of an old song ofaunt julia's--arrayed for the bridal. her voice, strong and clear in tone,attacked with great spirit the runs which embellish the air and thoughshe sang very rapidly she

did not miss even the smallest of the gracenotes. to follow the voice, without looking at the singer's face,was to feel and share the excitement of swift and secure flight. gabrielapplauded loudly with all the others at the close of the song and loudapplause was borne in from the invisible supper-table. it sounded sogenuine that a little colour struggled into aunt julia's face asshe bent to replace in the music-stand the old leather-bound songbookthat had her initials on the cover. freddy malins, who had listened withhis head perched sideways to hear her better, was still applauding wheneveryone else had ceased and

talking animatedly to his mother who noddedher head gravely and slowly in acquiescence. at last, when he could clapno more, he stood up suddenly and hurried across the room to auntjulia whose hand he seized and held in both his hands, shaking it whenwords failed him or the catch in his voice proved too much for him. "i was just telling my mother," he said, "inever heard you sing so well, never. no, i never heard your voiceso good as it is tonight. now! would you believe that now? that's the truth.upon my word and honour that's the truth. i never heard your voicesound so fresh and so... so

clear and fresh, never." aunt julia smiled broadly and murmured somethingabout compliments as she released her hand from his grasp. mr.browne extended his open hand towards her and said to those who werenear him in the manner of a showman introducing a prodigy to an audience: "miss julia morkan, my latest discovery!" he was laughing very heartily at this himselfwhen freddy malins turned to him and said: "well, browne, if you're serious you mightmake a worse discovery. all

i can say is i never heard her sing half sowell as long as i am coming here. and that's the honest truth." "neither did i," said mr. browne. "i thinkher voice has greatly improved." aunt julia shrugged her shoulders and saidwith meek pride: "thirty years ago i hadn't a bad voice asvoices go." "i often told julia," said aunt kate emphatically,"that she was simply thrown away in that choir. but she never wouldbe said by me." she turned as if to appeal to the good senseof the others against a

refractory child while aunt julia gazed infront of her, a vague smile of reminiscence playing on her face. "no," continued aunt kate, "she wouldn't besaid or led by anyone, slaving there in that choir night and day,night and day. six o'clock on christmas morning! and all for what?" "well, isn't it for the honour of god, auntkate?" asked mary jane, twisting round on the piano-stool and smiling. aunt kate turned fiercely on her niece andsaid: "i know all about the honour of god, maryjane, but i think it's not at

all honourable for the pope to turn out thewomen out of the choirs that have slaved there all their lives and putlittle whipper-snappers of boys over their heads. i suppose it is forthe good of the church if the pope does it. but it's not just, mary jane,and it's not right." she had worked herself into a passion andwould have continued in defence of her sister for it was a sore subjectwith her but mary jane, seeing that all the dancers had come back,intervened pacifically: "now, aunt kate, you're giving scandal tomr. browne who is of the other persuasion."

aunt kate turned to mr. browne, who was grinningat this allusion to his religion, and said hastily: "o, i don't question the pope's being right.i'm only a stupid old woman and i wouldn't presume to do such a thing.but there's such a thing as common everyday politeness and gratitude.and if i were in julia's place i'd tell that father healey straight up tohis face..." "and besides, aunt kate," said mary jane,"we really are all hungry and when 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," saidmary jane, "and finish the discussion afterwards." on the landing outside the drawing-room gabrielfound his wife and mary jane trying to persuade miss ivors to stayfor supper. but miss ivors, who had put on her hat and was buttoning hercloak, would not stay. she did not feel in the least hungry and shehad already overstayed her time. "but only for ten minutes, molly," said mrs.conroy. "that won't delay "to take a pick itself," said mary jane, "afterall your dancing."

"i really couldn't," said miss ivors. "i am afraid you didn't enjoy yourself atall," said mary jane hopelessly. "ever so much, i assure you," said miss ivors,"but you really must let me 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 seeyou home if you are really

obliged to go." but miss ivors broke away from them. "i won't hear of it," she cried. "for goodness'sake go in to your suppers and don't mind me. i'm quite wellable to take care of myself." "well, you're the comical girl, molly," saidmrs. conroy frankly. "beannacht libh," cried miss ivors, with alaugh, as she ran down the staircase. mary jane gazed after her, a moody puzzledexpression on her face, while mrs. conroy leaned over the banistersto listen for the hall-door.

gabriel asked himself was he the cause ofher abrupt departure. but she did not seem to be in ill humour: she hadgone away laughing. he stared blankly down the staircase. at the moment aunt kate came toddling outof the supper-room, almost wringing her hands in despair. "where is gabriel?" she cried. "where on earthis gabriel? there's everyone waiting in there, stage to let, andnobody to carve the goose!" "here i am, aunt kate!" cried gabriel, withsudden animation, "ready to carve a flock of geese, if necessary."

a fat brown goose lay at one end of the tableand at the other end, on a bed of creased paper strewn with sprigsof parsley, lay a great ham, stripped of its outer skin and peppered overwith crust crumbs, a neat paper frill round its shin and beside thiswas a round of spiced beef. between these rival ends ran parallel linesof side-dishes: two little minsters of jelly, red and yellow; a shallowdish full of blocks of blancmange and red jam, a large green leaf-shapeddish with a stalk-shaped handle, on which lay bunchesof purple raisins and peeled almonds, a companion dish on which lay a solidrectangle of smyrna

figs, a dish of custard topped with gratednutmeg, a small bowl full of chocolates and sweets wrapped in gold andsilver papers and a glass vase in which stood some tall celery stalks. inthe centre of the table there stood, as sentries to a fruit-stand whichupheld a pyramid of oranges and american apples, two squat old-fashioneddecanters of cut glass, one containing port and the other dark sherry.on the closed square piano a pudding in a huge yellow dish lay in waitingand behind it were three squads of bottles of stout and ale and minerals,drawn up according to the colours of their uniforms, the first twoblack, with brown and

red labels, the third and smallest squad white,with transverse green sashes. gabriel took his seat boldly at the head ofthe table and, having looked to the edge of the carver, plunged his forkfirmly into the goose. he felt quite at ease now for he was an expertcarver and liked nothing better than to find himself at the head ofa well-laden table. "miss furlong, what shall i send you?" heasked. "a wing or a slice of the 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 platesof goose and plates of ham and spiced beef lily went from guest to guestwith a dish of hot floury potatoes wrapped in a white napkin. this wasmary jane's idea and she had also suggested apple sauce for the goosebut aunt kate had said that plain roast goose without any apple saucehad always been good enough for her and she hoped she might never eatworse. mary jane waited on her pupils and saw that they got the bestslices and aunt kate and aunt

julia opened and carried across from the pianobottles of stout and ale for the gentlemen and bottles of mineralsfor the ladies. there was a great deal of confusion and laughter and noise,the noise of orders and counter-orders, of knives and forks, ofcorks and glass-stoppers. gabriel began to carve second helpings assoon as he had finished the first round without serving himself. everyoneprotested loudly so that he compromised by taking a long draught ofstout for he had found the carving hot work. mary jane settled down quietlyto her supper but aunt kate and aunt julia were still toddling roundthe table, walking on

each other's heels, getting in each other'sway and giving each other unheeded orders. mr. browne begged of themto sit down and eat their suppers and so did gabriel but they said therewas time enough, so that, at last, freddy malins stood up and, capturingaunt kate, plumped her down on her chair amid general laughter. when everyone had been well served gabrielsaid, smiling: "now, if anyone wants a little more of whatvulgar people call stuffing let him or her speak." a chorus of voices invited him to begin hisown supper and lily came

forward with three potatoes which she hadreserved for him. "very well," said gabriel amiably, as he tookanother preparatory draught, "kindly forget my existence, ladiesand gentlemen, for a few minutes." he set to his supper and took no part in theconversation with which the table covered lily's removal of the plates.the subject of talk was the opera company which was then at the theatreroyal. mr. bartell d'arcy, the tenor, a dark-complexioned young man witha smart moustache, praised very highly the leading contralto of the companybut miss furlong

thought she had a rather vulgar style of production.freddy malins said there was a negro chieftain singing in thesecond part of the gaiety pantomime who had one of the finest tenorvoices he had ever heard. "have you heard him?" he asked mr. bartelld'arcy across the table. "no," answered mr. bartell d'arcy carelessly. "because," freddy malins explained, "now i'dbe curious to hear your opinion of him. i think he has a grand voice." "it takes teddy to find out the really goodthings," said mr. browne familiarly to the table.

"and why couldn't he have a voice too?" askedfreddy malins sharply. "is it because he's only a black?" nobody answered this question and mary janeled the table back to the legitimate opera. one of her pupils had givenher a pass for mignon. of course it was very fine, she said, butit made her think of poor georgina burns. mr. browne could go back fartherstill, to the old italian companies that used to come to dublin--tietjens,ilma de murzka, campanini, the great trebelli, giuglini, ravelli,aramburo. those were the days, he said, when there was somethinglike singing to be heard in

dublin. he told too of how the top galleryof the old royal used to be packed night after night, of how one nightan italian tenor had sung five encores to let me like a soldier fall,introducing a high c every time, and of how the gallery boys would sometimesin their enthusiasm unyoke the horses from the carriage of somegreat prima donna and pull her themselves through the streets to herhotel. why did they never play the grand old operas now, he asked, dinorah,lucrezia borgia? because they could not get the voices to sing them:that was why. "oh, well," said mr. bartell d'arcy, "i presumethere are as good

singers today as there were then." "where are they?" asked mr. browne defiantly. "in london, paris, milan," said mr. bartelld'arcy warmly. "i suppose caruso, for example, is quite as good, ifnot better than any of the men you have mentioned." "maybe so," said mr. browne. "but i may tellyou i doubt it strongly." "o, i'd give anything to hear caruso sing,"said mary jane. "for me," said aunt kate, who had been pickinga bone, "there was only one tenor. to please me, i mean. but i supposenone of you ever heard of

him." "who was he, miss morkan?" asked mr. bartelld'arcy politely. "his name," said aunt kate, "was parkinson.i heard him when he was in his prime and i think he had then the puresttenor voice that was ever put into a man's throat." "strange," said mr. bartell d'arcy. "i nevereven heard of him." "yes, yes, miss morkan is right," said mr.browne. "i remember hearing of old parkinson but he's too far back forme." "a beautiful, pure, sweet, mellow englishtenor," said aunt kate with

enthusiasm. gabriel having finished, the huge puddingwas transferred to the table. the clatter of forks and spoons began again.gabriel's wife served out spoonfuls of the pudding and passed the platesdown the table. midway down they were held up by mary jane, who replenishedthem with raspberry or orange jelly or with blancmange and jam.the pudding was of aunt julia's making and she received praises forit from all quarters. she herself said that it was not quite brown enough. "well, i hope, miss morkan," said mr. browne,"that i'm brown enough for

you because, you know, i'm all brown." all the gentlemen, except gabriel, ate someof the pudding out of compliment to aunt julia. as gabriel neverate sweets the celery had been left for him. freddy malins also tooka stalk of celery and ate it with his pudding. he had been told that celerywas a capital thing for the blood and he was just then under doctor'scare. mrs. malins, who had been silent all through the supper, said thather son was going down to mount melleray in a week or so. the tablethen spoke of mount melleray, how bracing the air was down there, how hospitablethe monks were and

how they never asked for a penny-piece fromtheir guests. "and do you mean to say," asked mr. browneincredulously, "that a chap can go down there and put up there as if itwere a hotel and live on the fat of the land and then come away withoutpaying anything?" "o, most people give some donation to themonastery when they leave." said mary jane. "i wish we had an institution like that inour church," said mr. browne candidly. he was astonished to hear that the monks neverspoke, got up at two in

the morning and slept in their coffins. heasked what they did it for. "that's the rule of the order," said auntkate firmly. "yes, but why?" asked mr. browne. aunt kate repeated that it was the rule, thatwas all. mr. browne still seemed not to understand. freddy malins explainedto him, as best he could, that the monks were trying to makeup for the sins committed by all the sinners in the outside world. theexplanation was not very clear for mr. browne grinned and said: "i like that idea very much but wouldn't acomfortable spring bed do

them as well as a coffin?" "the coffin," said mary jane, "is to remindthem of their last end." as the subject had grown lugubrious it wasburied in a silence of the table during which mrs. malins could be heardsaying to her neighbour in an indistinct undertone: "they are very good men, the monks, very piousmen." the raisins and almonds and figs and applesand oranges and chocolates and sweets were now passed about the tableand aunt julia invited all the guests to have either port or sherry.at first mr. bartell d'arcy

refused to take either but one of his neighboursnudged him and whispered something to him upon which he allowedhis glass to be filled. gradually as the last glasses were being filledthe conversation ceased. a pause followed, broken only by thenoise of the wine and by unsettlings of chairs. the misses morkan,all three, looked down at the tablecloth. someone coughed once or twiceand then a few gentlemen patted the table gently as a signal for silence.the silence came and gabriel pushed back his chair. the patting at once grew louder in encouragementand then ceased

altogether. gabriel leaned his ten tremblingfingers on the tablecloth and smiled nervously at the company. meetinga row of upturned faces he raised his eyes to the chandelier. the pianowas playing a waltz tune and he could hear the skirts sweeping againstthe drawing-room door. people, perhaps, were standing in the snowon the quay outside, gazing up at the lighted windows and listening tothe waltz music. the air was pure there. in the distance lay the park wherethe trees were weighted with snow. the wellington monument wore agleaming cap of snow that flashed westward over the white field of fifteenacres.

he began: "ladies and gentlemen, "it has fallen to my lot this evening, asin years past, to perform a very pleasing task but a task for which iam afraid my poor powers as a speaker are all too inadequate." "no, no!" said mr. browne. "but, however that may be, i can only askyou tonight to take the will for the deed and to lend me your attentionfor a few moments while i endeavour to express to you in words whatmy feelings are on this

occasion. "ladies and gentlemen, it is not the firsttime that we have gathered together under this hospitable roof, aroundthis hospitable board. it is not the first time that we have been the recipients--orperhaps, i had better say, the victims--of the hospitalityof certain good ladies." he made a circle in the air with his arm andpaused. everyone laughed or smiled at aunt kate and aunt julia and maryjane who all turned crimson with pleasure. gabriel went on more boldly: "i feel more strongly with every recurringyear that our country has

no tradition which does it so much honourand which it should guard so jealously as that of its hospitality. it isa tradition that is unique as far as my experience goes (and i have visitednot a few places abroad) among the modern nations. some wouldsay, perhaps, that with us it is rather a failing than anything to beboasted of. but granted even that, it is, to my mind, a princely failing,and one that i trust will long be cultivated among us. of one thing,at least, i am sure. as long as this one roof shelters the good ladiesaforesaid--and i wish from my heart it may do so for many and many a longyear to come--the tradition

of genuine warm-hearted courteous irish hospitality,which our forefathers have handed down to us and whichwe in turn must hand down to our descendants, is still alive among us." a hearty murmur of assent ran round the table.it shot through gabriel's mind that miss ivors was not thereand that she had gone away discourteously: and he said with confidencein himself: "a new generation is growing up in our midst,a generation actuated by new ideas and new principles. it is seriousand enthusiastic for these new ideas and its enthusiasm, even whenit is misdirected, is, i

believe, in the main sincere. but we are livingin a sceptical and, if i may use the phrase, a thought-tormentedage: and sometimes i fear that this new generation, educated or hypereducatedas it is, will lack those qualities of humanity, of hospitality, ofkindly humour which belonged to an older day. listening tonight to thenames of all those great singers of the past it seemed to me, i mustconfess, that we were living in a less spacious age. those days might,without exaggeration, be called spacious days: and if they are gonebeyond recall let us hope, at least, that in gatherings such as this weshall still speak of them with

pride and affection, still cherish in ourhearts the memory of those dead and gone great ones whose fame the worldwill not willingly let die." "hear, hear!" said mr. browne loudly. "but yet," continued gabriel, his voice fallinginto a softer inflection, "there are always in gatheringssuch as this sadder thoughts that will recur to our minds: thoughts ofthe past, of youth, of changes, of absent faces that we miss heretonight. our path through life is strewn with many such sad memories:and were we to brood upon

them always we could not find the heart togo on bravely with our work among the living. we have all of us livingduties and living affections which claim, and rightly claim, our strenuousendeavours. "therefore, i will not linger on the past.i will not let any gloomy moralising intrude upon us here tonight. herewe are gathered together for a brief moment from the bustle and rushof our everyday routine. we are met here as friends, in the spiritof good-fellowship, as colleagues, also to a certain extent, in thetrue spirit of camaraderie, and as the guests of--what shall i call them?--thethree graces of the

dublin musical world." the table burst into applause and laughterat this allusion. aunt julia vainly asked each of her neighbours in turnto tell her what gabriel had "he says we are the three graces, aunt julia,"said mary jane. aunt julia did not understand but she lookedup, smiling, at gabriel, who continued in the same vein: "i will not attempt to play tonight the partthat paris played on another occasion. i will not attempt to choosebetween them. the task would be an invidious one and one beyond mypoor powers. for when i view

them in turn, whether it be our chief hostessherself, whose good heart, whose too good heart, has become a bywordwith all who know her, or her sister, who seems to be gifted with perennialyouth and whose singing must have been a surprise and a revelationto us all tonight, or, last but not least, when i consider our youngesthostess, talented, cheerful, hard-working and the best of nieces, i confess,ladies and gentlemen, that i do not know to which of them i shouldaward the prize." gabriel glanced down at his aunts and, seeingthe large smile on aunt julia's face and the tears which had risento aunt kate's eyes, hastened

to his close. he raised his glass of portgallantly, while every member of the company fingered a glass expectantly,and said loudly: "let us toast them all three together. letus drink to their health, wealth, long life, happiness and prosperityand may they long continue to hold the proud and self-won position whichthey hold in their profession and the position of honour andaffection which they hold in our hearts." all the guests stood up, glass in hand, andturning towards the three seated ladies, sang in unison, with mr. browneas 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 handkerchiefand even aunt julia seemed moved. freddy malins beat time withhis pudding-fork and the singers turned towards one another, as ifin melodious conference, while they sang with emphasis: unless he tells a lie,unless he tells a lie. then, turning once more towards their hostesses,they sang: the acclamation which followed was taken upbeyond the door of the

supper-room by many of the other guests andrenewed time after time, freddy malins acting as officer with his forkon high. the piercing morning air came into the hallwhere they were standing so that aunt kate said: "close the door, somebody. mrs. malins willget her death of cold." "browne is out there, aunt kate," said maryjane. "browne is everywhere," said aunt kate, loweringher voice. mary jane laughed at her tone. "really," she said archly, "he is very attentive."

"he has been laid on here like the gas," saidaunt kate in the same tone, "all during the christmas." she laughed herself this time good-humouredlyand then added quickly: "but tell him to come in, mary jane, and closethe door. i hope to goodness he didn't hear me." at that moment the hall-door was opened andmr. browne came in from the doorstep, laughing as if his heart would break.he was dressed in a long green overcoat with mock astrakhan cuffs andcollar and wore on his head an oval fur cap. he pointed down the snow-coveredquay from where the

sound of shrill prolonged whistling was bornein. "teddy will have all the cabs in dublin out,"he said. gabriel advanced from the little pantry behindthe office, struggling into his overcoat and, looking round the hall,said: "gretta not down yet?" "she's getting on her things, gabriel," saidaunt kate. "who's playing up there?" asked gabriel. "nobody. they're all gone." "o no, aunt kate," said mary jane. "bartelld'arcy and miss o'callaghan

aren't gone yet." "someone is fooling at the piano anyhow,"said gabriel. mary jane glanced at gabriel and mr. browneand said with a shiver: "it makes me feel cold to look at you twogentlemen muffled up like that. i wouldn't like to face your journeyhome at this hour." "i'd like nothing better this minute," saidmr. browne stoutly, "than a rattling fine walk in the country or a fastdrive with a good spanking goer between the shafts." "we used to have a very good horse and trapat home," said aunt julia

sadly. "the never-to-be-forgotten johnny," said maryjane, laughing. aunt kate and gabriel laughed too. "why, what was wonderful about johnny?" askedmr. browne. "the late lamented patrick morkan, our grandfather,that is," explained gabriel, "commonly known in his later yearsas the old gentleman, was a glue-boiler." "o, now, gabriel," said aunt kate, laughing,"he had a starch mill." "well, glue or starch," said gabriel, "theold gentleman had a horse by

the name of johnny. and johnny used to workin the old gentleman's mill, walking round and round in order to drivethe mill. that was all very well; but now comes the tragic part aboutjohnny. one fine day the old gentleman thought he'd like to drive out withthe quality to a military review in the park." "the lord have mercy on his soul," said auntkate compassionately. "amen," said gabriel. "so the old gentleman,as i said, harnessed johnny and put on his very best tall hat and hisvery best stock collar and drove out in grand style from his ancestralmansion somewhere near back

lane, i think." everyone laughed, even mrs. malins, at gabriel'smanner and aunt kate "o, now, gabriel, he didn't live in back lane,really. only the mill was there." "out from the mansion of his forefathers,"continued gabriel, "he drove with johnny. and everything went on beautifullyuntil johnny came in sight of king billy's statue: and whetherhe fell in love with the horse king billy sits on or whether he thought hewas back again in the mill, anyhow he began to walk round the statue."

gabriel paced in a circle round the hall inhis goloshes amid the laughter of the others. "round and round he went," said gabriel, "andthe old gentleman, who was a very pompous old gentleman, was highly indignant.'go on, sir! what do you mean, sir? johnny! johnny! most extraordinaryconduct! can't understand the horse!'" the peal of laughter which followed gabriel'simitation of the incident was interrupted by a resounding knock at thehall door. mary jane ran to open it and let in freddy malins. freddy malins,with his hat well back

on his head and his shoulders humped withcold, was puffing and steaming after his exertions. "i could only get one cab," he said. "o, we'll find another along the quay," saidgabriel. "yes," said aunt kate. "better not keep mrs.malins standing in the draught." mrs. malins was helped down the front stepsby her son and mr. browne and, after many manoeuvres, hoisted into thecab. freddy malins clambered in after her and spent a long timesettling her on the seat,

mr. browne helping him with advice. at lastshe was settled comfortably and freddy malins invited mr. browne intothe cab. there was a good deal of confused talk, and then mr. brownegot into the cab. the cabman settled his rug over his knees, and bent downfor the address. the confusion grew greater and the cabman wasdirected differently by freddy malins and mr. browne, each of whom had hishead out through a window of the cab. the difficulty was to know whereto drop mr. browne along the route, and aunt kate, aunt julia and maryjane helped the discussion from the doorstep with cross-directions andcontradictions and abundance

of laughter. as for freddy malins he was speechlesswith laughter. he popped his head in and out of the windowevery moment to the great danger of his hat, and told his motherhow the discussion was progressing, till at last mr. browne shoutedto the bewildered cabman above the din of everybody's laughter: "do you know trinity college?" "yes, sir," said the cabman. "well, drive bang up against trinity collegegates," said mr. browne, "and then we'll tell you where to go. youunderstand now?"

"make like a bird for trinity college." "right, sir," said the cabman. the horse was whipped up and the cab rattledoff along the quay amid a chorus of laughter and adieus. gabriel had not gone to the door with theothers. he was in a dark part of the hall gazing up the staircase. a womanwas standing near the top of the first flight, in the shadow also. hecould not see her face but he could see the terra-cotta and salmon-pinkpanels of her skirt which the shadow made appear black and white. itwas his wife. she was leaning

on the banisters, listening to something.gabriel was surprised at her stillness and strained his ear to listen also.but he could hear little save the noise of laughter and dispute onthe front steps, a few chords struck on the piano and a few notes of a man'svoice singing. he stood still in the gloom of the hall, tryingto catch the air that the voice was singing and gazing up at hiswife. there was grace and mystery in her attitude as if she were a symbolof something. he asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairsin the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. if he werea painter he would paint her

in that attitude. her blue felt hat wouldshow off the bronze of her hair against the darkness and the dark panelsof her skirt would show off the light ones. distant music he wouldcall the picture if he were a painter. the hall-door was closed; and aunt kate, auntjulia and mary jane came down the hall, still laughing. "well, isn't freddy terrible?" said mary jane."he's really terrible." gabriel said nothing but pointed up the stairstowards where his wife was standing. now that the hall-door was closedthe voice and the piano

could be heard more clearly. gabriel heldup his hand for them to be silent. the song seemed to be in the old irishtonality and the singer seemed uncertain both of his words and ofhis voice. the voice, made plaintive by distance and by the singer'shoarseness, faintly illuminated the cadence of the air with wordsexpressing grief: o, the rain falls on my heavy locksand the dew wets my skin, my babe lies cold... "o," exclaimed mary jane. "it's bartell d'arcysinging and he wouldn't sing all the night. o, i'll get him to singa song before he goes."

"o, do, mary jane," said aunt kate. mary jane brushed past the others and ranto the staircase, but before she reached it the singing stopped and thepiano was closed abruptly. "o, what a pity!" she cried. "is he comingdown, gretta?" gabriel heard his wife answer yes and sawher come down towards them. a few steps behind her were mr. bartell d'arcyand miss o'callaghan. "o, mr. d'arcy," cried mary jane, "it's downrightmean of you to break off like that when we were all in raptureslistening to you." "i have been at him all the evening," saidmiss o'callaghan, "and mrs.

conroy, too, and he told us he had a dreadfulcold and couldn't sing." "o, mr. d'arcy," said aunt kate, "now thatwas 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 onhis overcoat. the others, taken aback by his rude speech, could findnothing to say. aunt kate wrinkled her brows and made signs to the othersto drop the subject. mr. d'arcy stood swathing his neck carefully andfrowning. "it's the weather," said aunt julia, aftera pause. "yes, everybody has colds," said aunt katereadily, "everybody."

"they say," said mary jane, "we haven't hadsnow like it for thirty years; and i read this morning in the newspapersthat the snow is general all over ireland." "i love the look of snow," said aunt juliasadly. "so do i," said miss o'callaghan. "i thinkchristmas is never really christmas 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 swathedand buttoned, and in a repentant tone told them the history ofhis cold. everyone gave him

advice and said it was a great pity and urgedhim to be very careful of his throat in the night air. gabriel watchedhis wife, who did not join in the conversation. she was standing rightunder the dusty fanlight and the flame of the gas lit up the rich bronzeof her hair, which he had seen her drying at the fire a few days before.she was in the same attitude and seemed unaware of the talk abouther. at last she turned towards them and gabriel saw that there wascolour on her cheeks and that her eyes were shining. a sudden tideof joy went leaping out of his heart.

"mr. d'arcy," she said, "what is the nameof that song you were singing?" "it's called the lass of aughrim," said mr.d'arcy, "but i couldn't remember it properly. why? do you know it?" "the lass of aughrim," she repeated. "i couldn'tthink of the name." "it's a very nice air," said mary jane. "i'msorry you were not in voice tonight." "now, mary jane," said aunt kate, "don't annoymr. d'arcy. i won't have him annoyed."

seeing that all were ready to start she shepherdedthem to the door, where good-night was said: "well, good-night, aunt kate, and thanks forthe pleasant evening." "good-night, gabriel. good-night, gretta!" "good-night, aunt kate, and thanks ever somuch. goodnight, aunt julia." "o, good-night, gretta, i didn't see you." "good-night, mr. d'arcy. good-night, misso'callaghan." "good-night, miss morkan." "good-night, again."

"good-night, all. safe home." "good-night. good night." the morning was still dark. a dull, yellowlight brooded over the houses and the river; and the sky seemed tobe descending. it was slushy underfoot; and only streaks and patches ofsnow lay on the roofs, on the parapets of the quay and on the area railings.the lamps were still burning redly in the murky air and, acrossthe river, the palace of the four courts stood out menacingly against theheavy sky. she was walking on before him with mr. bartelld'arcy, her shoes in a

brown parcel tucked under one arm and herhands holding her skirt up from the slush. she had no longer any graceof attitude, but gabriel's eyes were still bright with happiness. theblood went bounding along his veins; and the thoughts went rioting throughhis brain, proud, joyful, tender, valorous. she was walking on before him so lightly andso erect that he longed to run after her noiselessly, catch her by theshoulders and say something foolish and affectionate into her ear. sheseemed to him so frail that he longed to defend her against somethingand then to be alone with her.

moments of their secret life together burstlike stars upon his memory. a heliotrope envelope was lying beside hisbreakfast-cup and he was caressing it with his hand. birds were twitteringin the ivy and the sunny web of the curtain was shimmering alongthe floor: he could not eat for happiness. they were standing on thecrowded platform and he was placing a ticket inside the warm palm of herglove. he was standing with her in the cold, looking in through agrated window at a man making bottles in a roaring furnace. it was verycold. her face, fragrant in the cold air, was quite close to his; andsuddenly he called out to the

man at the furnace: "is the fire hot, sir?" but the man could not hear with the noiseof the furnace. it was just as well. he might have answered rudely. a wave of yet more tender joy escaped fromhis heart and went coursing in warm flood along his arteries. like thetender fire of stars moments of their life together, that no one knew ofor would ever know of, broke upon and illumined his memory. he longed torecall to her those moments, to make her forget the years of their dullexistence together and

remember only their moments of ecstasy. forthe years, he felt, had not quenched his soul or hers. their children,his writing, her household cares had not quenched all their souls' tenderfire. in one letter that he had written to her then he had said: "whyis it that words like these seem to me so dull and cold? is it becausethere is no word tender enough to be your name?" like distant music these words that he hadwritten years before were borne towards him from the past. he longedto be alone with her. when the others had gone away, when he and shewere in the room in their hotel,

then they would be alone together. he wouldcall her softly: "gretta!" perhaps she would not hear at once: she wouldbe undressing. then something in his voice would strike her. shewould turn and look at him.... at the corner of winetavern street they meta cab. he was glad of its rattling noise as it saved him from conversation.she was looking out of the window and seemed tired. the others spokeonly a few words, pointing out some building or street. the horse gallopedalong wearily under the

murky morning sky, dragging his old rattlingbox after his heels, and gabriel was again in a cab with her, gallopingto catch the boat, galloping to their honeymoon. as the cab drove across o'connell bridge misso'callaghan said: "they say you never cross o'connell bridgewithout seeing a white horse." "i see a white man this time," said gabriel. "where?" asked mr. bartell d'arcy. gabriel pointed to the statue, on which laypatches of snow. then he

nodded familiarly to it and waved his hand. "good-night, dan," he said gaily. when the cab drew up before the hotel, gabrieljumped out and, in spite of mr. bartell d'arcy's protest, paid thedriver. he gave the man a shilling over his fare. the man saluted andsaid: "a prosperous new year to you, sir." "the same to you," said gabriel cordially. she leaned for a moment on his arm in gettingout of the cab and while standing at the curbstone, bidding the othersgood-night. she leaned

lightly on his arm, as lightly as when shehad danced with him a few hours before. he had felt proud and happythen, happy that she was his, proud of her grace and wifely carriage. butnow, after the kindling again of so many memories, the first touchof her body, musical and strange and perfumed, sent through him a keenpang of lust. under cover of her silence he pressed her arm closelyto his side; and, as they stood at the hotel door, he felt that theyhad escaped from their lives and duties, escaped from home and friendsand run away together with wild and radiant hearts to a new adventure.

an old man was dozing in a great hooded chairin the hall. he lit a candle in the office and went before themto the stairs. they followed him in silence, their feet falling in softthuds on the thickly carpeted stairs. she mounted the stairs behind theporter, her head bowed in the ascent, her frail shoulders curved aswith a burden, her skirt girt tightly about her. he could have flung hisarms about her hips and held her still, for his arms were trembling withdesire to seize her and only the stress of his nails against the palmsof his hands held the wild impulse of his body in check. the porter haltedon the stairs to settle

his guttering candle. they halted, too, onthe steps below him. in the silence gabriel could hear the falling ofthe molten wax into the tray and the thumping of his own heart againsthis ribs. the porter led them along a corridor and openeda door. then he set his unstable candle down on a toilet-table andasked at what hour they were to be called in the morning. "eight," said gabriel. the porter pointed to the tap of the electric-lightand began a muttered apology, but gabriel cut him short.

"we don't want any light. we have light enoughfrom the street. and i say," he added, pointing to the candle, "youmight remove that handsome article, like a good man." the porter took up his candle again, but slowly,for he was surprised by such a novel idea. then he mumbled good-nightand went out. gabriel shot the lock to. a ghostly light from the street lamp lay ina long shaft from one window to the door. gabriel threw his overcoat andhat on a couch and crossed the room towards the window. he looked downinto the street in order

that his emotion might calm a little. thenhe turned and leaned against a chest of drawers with his back to the light.she had taken off her hat and cloak and was standing before a largeswinging mirror, unhooking her waist. gabriel paused for a few moments, watchingher, and then said: she turned away from the mirror slowly andwalked along the shaft of light towards him. her face looked so seriousand weary that the words would not pass gabriel's lips. no, it wasnot 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 waited again and then, fearing that diffidence wasabout to conquer him, he said abruptly: "by the way, gretta!" "what is it?" "you know that poor fellow malins?" he saidquickly. "yes. what about him?"

"well, poor fellow, he's a decent sort ofchap, after all," continued gabriel in a false voice. "he gave me backthat sovereign i lent him, and i didn't expect it, really. it's a pityhe wouldn't keep away from that browne, because he's not a bad fellow,really." he was trembling now with annoyance. why didshe seem so abstracted? he did not know how he could begin. was she annoyed,too, about something? if she would only turn to him or come to himof her own accord! to take her as she was would be brutal. no, he mustsee some ardour in her eyes first. he longed to be master of her strangemood.

"when did you lend him the pound?" she asked,after a pause. gabriel strove to restrain himself from breakingout into brutal language about the sottish malins and hispound. he longed to cry to her from his soul, to crush her body against his,to overmaster her. but he "o, at christmas, when he opened that littlechristmas-card shop in henry street." he was in such a fever of rage and desirethat he did not hear her come from the window. she stood before him foran instant, looking at him strangely. then, suddenly raising herselfon tiptoe and resting her

hands lightly on his shoulders, she kissedhim. "you are a very generous person, gabriel,"she said. gabriel, trembling with delight at her suddenkiss and at the quaintness of her phrase, put his hands on her hair andbegan smoothing it back, scarcely touching it with his fingers. thewashing had made it fine and brilliant. his heart was brimming over withhappiness. just when he was wishing for it she had come to him ofher own accord. perhaps her thoughts had been running with his. perhapsshe had felt the impetuous desire that was in him, and then the yieldingmood had come upon her.

now that she had fallen to him so easily,he wondered why he had been so diffident. he stood, holding her head between his hands.then, slipping one arm swiftly about her body and drawing her towardshim, he said softly: "gretta, dear, what are you thinking about?" she did not answer nor yield wholly to hisarm. he said again, softly: "tell me what it is, gretta. i think i knowwhat is the matter. do i know?" she did not answer at once. then she saidin an outburst of tears:

"o, i am thinking about that song, the lassof aughrim." she broke loose from him and ran to the bedand, throwing her arms across the bed-rail, hid her face. gabrielstood stock-still for a moment in astonishment and then followed her. ashe passed in the way of the cheval-glass he caught sight of himself infull length, his broad, well-filled shirt-front, the face whose expressionalways puzzled him when he saw it in a mirror, and his glimmeringgilt-rimmed eyeglasses. he halted a few paces from her and said: "what about the song? why does that make youcry?"

she raised her head from her arms and driedher eyes with the back of her hand like a child. a kinder note thanhe had intended went into his voice. "why, gretta?" he asked. "i am thinking about a person long ago whoused to sing that song." "and who was the person long ago?" asked gabriel,smiling. "it was a person i used to know in galwaywhen i was living with my grandmother," she said. the smile passed away from gabriel's face.a dull anger began to gather

again at the back of his mind and the dullfires of his lust began to glow angrily in his veins. "someone you were in love with?" he askedironically. "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 tothink that he was interested in this delicate boy. "i can see him so plainly," she said, aftera moment. "such eyes as he had: big, dark eyes! and such an expressionin them--an expression!"

"o, then, you are in love with him?" saidgabriel. "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 togalway with that ivors girl?" he said coldly. she looked at him and asked in surprise: "what for?" her eyes made gabriel feel awkward. he shruggedhis shoulders and said: "how do i know? to see him, perhaps."

she looked away from him along the shaft oflight towards the window in silence. "he is dead," she said at length. "he diedwhen he was only seventeen. isn't it a terrible thing to die so youngas that?" "what was he?" asked gabriel, still ironically. "he was in the gasworks," she said. gabriel felt humiliated by the failure ofhis irony and by the evocation of this figure from the dead, a boy in thegasworks. while he had been full of memories of their secret life together,full of tenderness and

joy and desire, she had been comparing himin her mind with another. a shameful consciousness of his own person assailedhim. he saw himself as a ludicrous figure, acting as a pennyboyfor his aunts, a nervous, well-meaning sentimentalist, orating to vulgariansand idealising his own clownish lusts, the pitiable fatuous fellowhe had caught a glimpse of in the mirror. instinctively he turnedhis back more to the light lest she might see the shame that burned uponhis forehead. he tried to keep up his tone of cold interrogation,but his voice when he spoke was humble and indifferent.

"i suppose you were in love with this michaelfurey, gretta," he said. "i was great with him at that time," she said. her voice was veiled and sad. gabriel, feelingnow how vain it would be to try to lead her whither he had purposed,caressed one of her hands and 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 when he had hoped to triumph, some impalpable andvindictive being was coming

against him, gathering forces against himin its vague world. but he shook himself free of it with an effort ofreason and continued to caress her hand. he did not question her again,for he felt that she would tell him of herself. her hand was warmand moist: it did not respond to his touch, but he continued tocaress it just as he had caressed her first letter to him that springmorning. "it was in the winter," she said, "about thebeginning of the winter when i was going to leave my grandmother'sand come up here to the convent. and he was ill at the time in hislodgings in galway and

wouldn't be let out, and his people in oughterardwere written to. he was in decline, they said, or somethinglike that. i never knew rightly." she paused for a moment and sighed. "poor fellow," she said. "he was very fondof me and he was such a gentle boy. we used to go out together, walking,you know, gabriel, like the way they do in the country. he was goingto study singing only for his health. he had a very good voice, poormichael furey." "well; and then?" asked gabriel.

"and then when it came to the time for meto leave galway and come up to the convent he was much worse and i wouldn'tbe let see him so i wrote him a letter saying i was going up to dublinand would be back in the summer, and hoping he would be better then." she paused for a moment to get her voice undercontrol, and then went on: "then the night before i left, i was in mygrandmother's house in nuns' island, packing up, and i heard gravel thrownup against the window. the window was so wet i couldn't see, so iran downstairs as i was and

slipped out the back into the garden and therewas the poor fellow at the end of the garden, shivering." "and did you not tell him to go back?" askedgabriel. "i implored of him to go home at once andtold him he would get his death in the rain. but he said he did notwant to live. i can see his eyes as well as well! he was standing at theend of the wall where there was a tree." "and did he go home?" asked gabriel. "yes, he went home. and when i was only aweek in the convent he died

and he was buried in oughterard, where hispeople came from. o, the day i heard that, that he was dead!" she stopped, choking with sobs, and, overcomeby emotion, flung herself face downward on the bed, sobbing in the quilt.gabriel held her hand for a moment longer, irresolutely, and then,shy of intruding on her grief, let it fall gently and walked quietlyto the window. she was fast asleep. gabriel, leaning on his elbow, looked fora few moments unresentfully on her tangled hair and half-open mouth, listeningto her deep-drawn

breath. so she had had that romance in herlife: a man had died for her sake. it hardly pained him now to think howpoor a part he, her husband, had played in her life. he watched her whileshe slept, as though he and she had never lived together as man and wife.his curious eyes rested long upon her face and on her hair: and, ashe thought of what she must have been then, in that time of her firstgirlish beauty, a strange, friendly pity for her entered his soul. hedid not like to say even to himself that her face was no longer beautiful,but he knew that it was no longer the face for which michael fureyhad braved death.

perhaps she had not told him all the story.his eyes moved to the chair over which she had thrown some of herclothes. a petticoat string dangled to the floor. one boot stood upright,its limp upper fallen down: the fellow of it lay upon its side.he wondered at his riot of emotions of an hour before. from what hadit proceeded? from his aunt's supper, from his own foolish speech, fromthe wine and dancing, the merry-making when saying good-night in thehall, the pleasure of the walk along the river in the snow. poor auntjulia! she, too, would soon be a shade with the shade of patrick morkanand his horse. he had

caught that haggard look upon her face fora moment when she was singing arrayed for the bridal. soon, perhaps, hewould be sitting in that same drawing-room, dressed in black, his silk haton his knees. the blinds would be drawn down and aunt kate would besitting beside him, crying and blowing her nose and telling him how juliahad died. he would cast about in his mind for some words that mightconsole her, and would find only lame and useless ones. yes, yes: thatwould happen very soon. the air of the room chilled his shoulders.he stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets and laydown beside his wife. one by

one, they were all becoming shades. betterpass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion,than fade and wither dismally with age. he thought of how she who lay besidehim had locked in her heart for so many years that image of herlover's eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live. generous tears filled gabriel's eyes. he hadnever felt like that himself towards any woman, but he knew thatsuch a feeling must be love. the tears gathered more thickly in his eyesand in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young manstanding under a dripping

tree. other forms were near. his soul hadapproached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. he was consciousof, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence.his own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: thesolid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and livedin, was dissolving and dwindling. a few light taps upon the pane made him turnto the window. it had begun to snow again. he watched sleepily the flakes,silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. the timehad come for him to set out on

his journey westward. yes, the newspaperswere right: snow was general all over ireland. it was falling on everypart of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softlyupon the bog of allen and, farther westward, softly falling into thedark mutinous shannon waves. it was falling, too, upon every part of thelonely churchyard on the hill where michael furey lay buried. it laythickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spearsof the little gate, on the barren thorns. his soul swooned slowlyas he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling,like the descent of

their last end, upon all the living and thedead.