Dubliners

And after? Where will we meet?”

“Half ten,” answered Corley, bringing over his other leg.

“Where?”

“Corner of Merrion Street. We’ll be coming back.”

“Work it all right now,” said Lenehan in farewell.

Corley did not answer. He sauntered across the road swaying his 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 once to converse with her. She
swung her umbrella more quickly and executed half turns on her heels.
Once or twice when he spoke to her at close quarters she laughed and
bent her head.

Lenehan observed them for a few minutes. Then he walked rapidly along
beside the chains at some distance and crossed the road obliquely. As
he approached Hume Street corner he found the air heavily scented and
his eyes made a swift anxious scrutiny of the young woman’s appearance.
She had her Sunday finery on. Her blue serge skirt was held at the
waist by a belt of black leather. The great silver buckle of her belt
seemed to depress the centre of her body, catching the light stuff of
her white blouse like a clip. She wore a short black jacket with
mother-of-pearl buttons and a ragged black boa. The ends of her tulle
collarette had been carefully disordered and a big bunch of red flowers
was pinned in her bosom, stems upwards. Lenehan’s eyes noted
approvingly her stout short muscular body. Frank rude health glowed in
her face, on her fat red cheeks and in her unabashed blue eyes. Her
features were blunt. She had broad nostrils, a straggling mouth which
lay open in a contented leer, and two projecting front teeth. As he
passed Lenehan took off his cap and, after about ten seconds, Corley
returned a salute to the air. This he did by raising his hand vaguely
and pensively changing the angle of position of his hat.

Lenehan walked as far as the Shelbourne Hotel where he halted and
waited. After waiting for a little time he saw them coming towards him
and, when they turned to the right, he followed them, stepping lightly
in his white shoes, down one side of Merrion Square. As he walked on
slowly, timing his pace to theirs, he watched Corley’s head which
turned at every moment towards the young woman’s face like a big ball
revolving on a pivot. He kept the pair in view until he had seen them
climbing the stairs of the Donnybrook tram; then he turned about 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 railings of the Duke’s Lawn, he
allowed his hand to run along them. The air which the harpist had
played began to control his movements. His softly padded feet played
the melody while his fingers swept a scale of variations idly along the
railings after each group of notes.

He walked listlessly round Stephen’s Green and then down Grafton
Street. Though his eyes took note of many elements of the crowd through
which he passed they did so morosely. He found trivial all that was
meant to charm him and did not answer the glances which invited him to
be bold. He knew that he would have to speak a great deal, to invent
and to amuse, and his brain and throat were too dry for such a task.
The problem of how he could pass the hours till he met Corley again
troubled him a little. He could think of no way of passing them but to
keep on walking. He turned to the left when he came to the corner of
Rutland Square and felt more at ease in the dark quiet street, the
sombre look of which suited his mood. He paused at last before the
window of a poor-looking shop over which the words _Refreshment Bar_
were printed in white letters. On the glass of the window were two
flying inscriptions: _Ginger Beer_ and _Ginger Ale_. A cut ham was
exposed on a great blue 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 glancing warily up and down the street, went into the shop
quickly.

He was hungry for, except some biscuits which he had asked two grudging
curates to bring him, he had eaten nothing since breakfast-time. He sat
down at an uncovered wooden table opposite two 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, “and a bottle of ginger beer.”

He spoke roughly in order to belie his air of gentility for his entry
had been followed by a pause of talk. His face was heated. To appear
natural he pushed his cap back on his head and planted his elbows on
the table. The mechanic and the two work-girls examined him point by
point before resuming their conversation in a subdued voice. The girl
brought him a plate of grocer’s hot peas, seasoned with pepper and
vinegar, a fork and his ginger beer. He ate his food greedily 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 some time thinking
of Corley’s adventure. In his imagination he beheld the pair of lovers
walking along some dark road; he heard Corley’s voice in deep energetic
gallantries and saw again the leer of the young woman’s mouth. This
vision made him feel keenly his own poverty of purse and spirit. He was
tired of knocking about, of pulling the devil by the 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 and a good dinner to
sit down to. He had walked the streets long enough with friends and
with girls. He knew what those friends were worth: he knew the girls
too. Experience had embittered his heart against the world. But all
hope had not left him. He felt better after having eaten than he 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 happily
if he could only come across some good simple-minded girl with a little
of the ready.

He paid twopence halfpenny to the slatternly girl and went out of the
shop to begin his wandering again. He went into Capel Street and walked
along towards the City Hall. Then he turned into Dame Street. At the
corner of George’s Street he met two friends of his and stopped to
converse with them. He was glad that he could rest from all his
walking. His friends asked him had he seen Corley and what was the
latest. He replied that he had spent the day with Corley. His friends
talked very little. They looked vacantly after some figures in the
crowd and sometimes made a critical remark. One said that he had seen
Mac an hour before in Westmoreland Street. At this Lenehan said that
he had been with Mac the night before in Egan’s. The young man who
had seen Mac in Westmoreland Street asked was it true that Mac had
won a bit over a billiard match. Lenehan did not know: he said that
Holohan had stood them drinks in Egan’s.

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

His mind became active again. He wondered had Corley managed it
successfully. He wondered if he had asked her yet or if he would leave
it to the last. He suffered all the pangs and thrills of his friend’s
situation as well as those of his own. But the memory of Corley’s
slowly revolving head calmed him somewhat: he was sure Corley would
pull it off all right. All at once the idea struck him that perhaps
Corley had seen her home by another way and given him the slip. His
eyes searched the street: there was no sign of them. Yet it was 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 cigarette and began
to smoke it nervously. He strained his eyes as each tram stopped at the
far corner of the square. They must have gone home by another way. The
paper of his cigarette broke and he flung it into the road with a
curse.

Suddenly he saw them coming towards him. He started with delight and,
keeping close to his lamp-post, tried to read the result in their walk.
They were walking quickly, the young woman taking quick short steps,
while Corley kept beside her with his long stride. They did not seem to
be speaking. An intimation of the result pricked him 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 followed them at once, taking
the other footpath. When they stopped he stopped too. They talked for a
few moments and then the young woman went down the steps into the area
of a house. Corley remained standing at the edge of the path, a little
distance from the front steps. Some minutes passed. Then the hall-door
was opened slowly and cautiously. A woman came running down the front
steps and coughed. Corley turned and went towards her. His broad
figure hid hers from view for a few seconds and then she reappeared
running up the steps. The door closed on her and Corley began to walk
swiftly towards Stephen’s Green.

Lenehan hurried on in the same direction. Som