English duchess—a story which he knew to be true. Little Chandler was astonished.
—Ah, well, said Ignatius Gallaher, here we 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 relaxation to come over here, you know. And after all, it’s the old country, as they say, isn’t it? You can’t help having a certain feeling for it. That’s human nature… But tell me something about yourself. Hogan told me you had… 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 twelve months.
—I hope it’s not too late in the day to offer my best wishes, said Ignatius Gallaher. I didn’t know your address or I’d have done so at the time.
He extended his hand, which Little Chandler took.
—Well, Tommy, he said, I wish you and yours every joy in life, old chap, and tons of money, and may you never die till I shoot you. And that’s the wish of a sincere friend, an old friend. You know that?
—I know that, said Little Chandler.
—Any youngsters? said Ignatius Gallaher.
Little Chandler blushed again.
—We have one child, he said.
—Son or daughter?
—A little boy.
Ignatius Gallaher slapped his friend sonorously on the back.
—Bravo, he said, I wouldn’t doubt you, Tommy.
Little Chandler smiled, looked confusedly at his glass and bit his 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 Ignatius Gallaher, I’m sorry we didn’t meet earlier. But I must leave to-morrow night.
—To-night, perhaps…?
—I’m awfully sorry, old man. You see I’m over here with another fellow, clever young chap he is too, and we arranged 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’ve broken the ice. It’s only a pleasure deferred.
—Very well, said Little Chandler, the next time you come we must have an evening together. That’s agreed now, isn’t it?
—Yes, that’s agreed, said Ignatius Gallaher. Next year if I come, parole d’honneur.
—And to clinch the bargain, said Little Chandler, we’ll just have one more now.
Ignatius Gallaher took out a large gold watch and looked at it.
—Is it to be the last? he said. Because, you know, I have an a.p.
—O, yes, positively, said Little Chandler.
—Very well then, said Ignatius Gallaher, let us have another one as a deoc an doruis— that’s good vernacular for a small whisky, I believe.
Little Chandler ordered the drinks. The blush which had risen to his face a few moments before was establishing itself. A trifle made him blush at any time: and now he felt warm and excited. Three small whiskies had gone to his head and Gallaher’s strong cigar had confused his mind, for he was a delicate and abstinent person. The adventure of meeting Gallaher after eight years, of finding himself with Gallaher in Corless’s surrounded by lights and noise, of listening to Gallaher’s stories and of sharing for a brief space Gallaher’s vagrant and triumphant life, upset the equipoise of his sensitive nature. He felt acutely the contrast between his own life and his friend’s, and it seemed to him unjust. Gallaher was his inferior in birth and education. He was sure that he could do something better than his friend had ever done, or could ever do, something higher than mere tawdry journalism if he only got the chance. What was it that stood in his way? His unfortunate timidity! He wished to vindicate himself in some way, to assert his manhood. He saw behind Gallaher’s refusal of his invitation. Gallaher was only patronising him by his friendliness just as he was patronising Ireland by his visit.
The barman brought their drinks. Little Chandler pushed one glass towards his friend and took up the other boldly.
—Who knows? he said as they lifted their glasses. When you come next year I may have the pleasure of wishing long life and happiness to Mr and Mrs Ignatius Gallaher.
Ignatius Gallaher in the act of drinking closed one eye expressively over the rim of his glass. When he had drunk he smacked his lips decisively, set down his glass and said:
—No blooming fear of that, my boy. I’m going to have my fling first and see a bit of life and the world before I put my head in the sack—if I ever do.
—Some day you will, said Little Chandler calmly.
Ignatius Gallaher turned his orange tie and slate-blue eyes full upon his friend.
—You think so? he said.
—You’ll put your head in the sack, repeated Little Chandler stoutly, like everyone else if you can find the girl.
He had slightly emphasised his tone and he was aware that he had betrayed himself, but though the colour had heightened in his cheek he did not flinch from his friend’s gaze. Ignatius Gallaher watched him for a few moments and then said:
—If ever it occurs you may bet your bottom dollar there’ll be no mooning and spooning about it. I mean to marry money. She’ll have a good fat account at the bank or she won’t do for me.
Little Chandler shook his head.
—Why, man alive, said Ignatius Gallaher vehemently, do you know what it is? I’ve only to say the word and to-morrow I can have the woman and the cash. You don’t believe it? Well, I know it. There are hundreds—what am I saying?—thousands of rich Germans and Jews, rotten with money, that’d only be too glad… You wait a while, my boy. See if I don’t play my cards properly. When I go about a thing I mean business, I tell you. You just wait.
He tossed his glass to his mouth, finished his drink and laughed loudly. Then he looked thoughtfully before him and said in a calmer tone:
—But I’m in no hurry. They can wait. I don’t fancy tying myself up to one woman, you know.
He imitated with his mouth the act of tasting and made a wry face.
—Must get a bit stale, I should think, he said.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Little Chandler sat in the room off the hall, holding a child in his arms. To save money they kept no servant, but Annie’s young sister Monica came for an hour or so in the morning and an 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 tea and, moreover, he had forgotten to bring Annie home the parcel of coffee from Bewley’s. Of course she was in a bad humour and gave him short answers. She said she would do without any tea, but when it came near the time at which the shop at the corner closed she decided to go out 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 stood upon the table and its light fell over a photograph which was enclosed in a frame of crumpled horn. It was Annie’s photograph. Little Chandler looked at it, pausing at the thin tight lips. She wore the pale blue summer blouse which he had brought her home