‘Mr. D’Arcy,’ she said, ‘what is the name of 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’t think of the name.’

‘It’s a very nice air,’ said Mary Jane. ‘I’m sorry you were not in voice tonight.’

‘Now, Mary Jane,’ said Aunt Kate, ‘don’t annoy Mr. D’Arcy. I won’t have him annoyed.’

Seeing that all were ready to start she shepherded them to the door, where good night was said:

‘Well, good night, Aunt Kate, and thanks for the pleasant evening.’

‘Good night, Gabriel. Good night, Gretta!’

‘Good night, Aunt Kate, and thanks ever so much. Good night, Aunt Julia.’

‘O, good night, Gretta, I didn’t see you.’

‘Good night, Mr. D’Arcy. Good night, Miss O’Callaghan.’

‘Good night, Miss Morkan.’

‘Good night, again.’

‘Good night, all. Safe home.’

‘Good night. Good night.’

The morning was still dark. A dull, yellow light brooded over the houses and the river; and the sky seemed to be descending. It was slushy underfoot, and only streaks and patches of snow 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, across the river, the palace of the Four Courts stood out menacingly against the heavy sky.

She was walking on before him with Mr. Bartell D’Arcy, her shoes in a brown parcel tucked under one arm and her hands holding her skirt up from the slush. She had no longer any grace of attitude, but Gabriel’s eyes were still bright with happiness. The blood went bounding along his veins and the thoughts went rioting through his brain, proud, joyful, tender, valorous.

She was walking on before him so lightly and so erect that he longed to run after her noiselessly, catch her by the shoulders and say something foolish and affectionate into her ear. She seemed to him so frail that he longed to defend her against something and then to be alone with her. Moments of their secret life together burst like stars upon his memory. A heliotrope envelope was lying beside his breakfast- cup and he was caressing it with his hand. Birds were twittering in the ivy and the sunny web of the curtain was shimmering along the floor: he could not eat for happiness. They were standing on the crowded platform and he was placing a ticket inside the warm palm of her glove. He was standing with her in the cold, looking in through a grated window at a man making bottles in a roaring furnace. It was very cold. Her face, fragrant in the cold air, was quite close to his, and suddenly he called out to the man at the furnace:

‘Is the fire hot, sir?’

But the man could not hear with the noise of the furnace. It was just as well. He might have answered rudely.