PARThe summer evening had begun to fold the world in its mysterious
embrace. Far away in the west the sun was setting and the last glow of all
too fleeting day lingered lovingly on sea and strand, on the proud
promontory of dear old Howth guarding as ever the waters of the bay, on
the weedgrown rocks along Sandymount shore and, last but not least, on
the quiet church

    . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . whence there streamed forth at times upon the stillness the
    voice of prayer to her who is in her pure radiance a beacon ever to the
    stormtossed heart of man, Mary, star of the sea.

      PARThe three girl friends were seated on the rocks, enjoying the evening
      scene and the air which was fresh but not too chilly.

        . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Many a time and oft
        were they wont to come there to that favourite nook to have a cosy chat
        beside the sparkling waves and discuss matters feminine,
          . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cissy Caffrey and
          Edy Boardman with the baby in the pushcar and Tommy and Jacky
          Caffrey, two little curlyheaded boys, dressed in sailor suits with caps to
          match and the name H. M. S. Belleisle printed on both.
          For Tommy and
          Jacky Caffrey were twins, scarce four years old and very noisy and spoiled
          twins sometimes but for all that darling little fellows with bright merry faces
          and endearing ways about them.
          They were dabbling in the sand with their
          spades and buckets, building castles as children do, or playing with their big
          coloured ball, happy as the day was long. And Edy Boardman was rocking
          the chubby baby to and fro in the pushcar while that young gentleman
          fairly chuckled with delight.
          He was but eleven months and nine days old
          and, though still a tiny toddler, was just beginning to lisp his first babyish
          Cissy Caffrey bent over to him to tease his fat little plucks and the
          dainty dimple in his chin.

          PAR—Now, baby, Cissy Caffrey said. Say out big, big. I want a drink of water.

          PARAnd baby prattled after her:

          PAR—A jink a jink a jawbo.

          PARCissy Caffrey cuddled the wee chap .

            . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . for she was awfully fond of
            children, so patient with little sufferers and Tommy Caffrey could never be
            got to take his castor oil unless it was Cissy Caffrey that held his nose and
            promised him the scatty heel of the loaf or brown bread with golden syrup
            on. What a persuasive power that girl had! But to be sure baby Boardman
            was as good as gold, a perfect little dote in his new fancy bib. None of your
            spoilt beauties, Flora MacFlimsy sort, was Cissy Caffrey. A truerhearted

            lass never drew the breath of life, always with a laugh in her gipsylike eyes
            and a frolicsome word on her cherryripe red lips, a girl lovable in the

              . . . . . . . . . . And Edy Boardman laughed too at the quaint language of little

              PARBut just then there was a slight altercation between Master Tommy
              and Master Jacky.
              Boys will be boys and our two twins were no exception
              to this golden rule.
              The apple of discord was a certain castle of sand which
              Master Jacky had built and Master Tommy would have it right go wrong
              that it was to be architecturally improved by a frontdoor like the Martello
              tower had. But if Master Tommy was headstrong Master Jacky was
              selfwilled too and, true to the maxim that every little Irishman's house is his
              castle, he fell upon his hated rival and to such purpose that the wouldbe
              assailant came to grief and (alas to relate!) the coveted castle too.
              to say the cries of discomfited Master Tommy drew the attention of the girl

              PAR—Come here, Tommy, his sister called imperatively. At once! And you,
              Jacky, for shame to throw poor Tommy in the dirty sand. Wait till I catch
              you for that.

              PARHis eyes misty with unshed tears Master Tommy came at her call for
              their big sister's word was law with the twins. And in a sad plight he was
              too after his misadventure. His little man-o'-war top and unmentionables
              were full of sand but Cissy was a past mistress in the art of smoothing over
              life's tiny troubles and very quickly not one speck of sand was to be seen on
              his smart little suit. Still the blue eyes were glistening with hot tears that
              would well up so she kissed away the hurtness and shook her hand at
              Master Jacky the culprit and said if she was near him she wouldn't be far
              from him, her eyes dancing in admonition.

              PAR—Nasty bold Jacky! she cried.

              PAR She put an arm round the little mariner and coaxed winningly:

              PAR—What's your name? Butter and cream?

              PAR—Tell us who is your sweetheart, spoke Edy Boardman. Is Cissy your

              PAR—Nao, tearful Tommy said.

              PAR—Is Edy Boardman your sweetheart? Cissy queried.

              PAR—Nao, Tommy said.

              PAR—I know, Edy Boardman said none too amiably with an arch glance from
              her shortsighted eyes.
              I know who is Tommy's sweetheart. Gerty is
              Tommy's sweetheart.

              PAR—Nao, Tommy said on the verge of tears.

              PARCissy's quick motherwit guessed what was amiss and she whispered
              to Edy Boardman to take him there behind the pushcar where the
              gentleman couldn't see and to mind he didn't wet his new tan shoes.

              PARBut who was Gerty?

              PARGerty MacDowell who was seated near her companions, lost in
              thought, gazing far away into the distance was,

              . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .in very truth, as fair a
              specimen of winsome Irish girlhood as one could wish to see. She was
              pronounced beautiful by all who knew her though, as folks often said, she
              was more a Giltrap than a MacDowell. Her figure was slight and graceful,
              inclining even to fragility but those iron jelloids she had been taking of late
              had done her a world of good much better than the Widow Welch's female
              pills and she was much better of those discharges she used to get and that
              tired feeling. The waxen pallor of her face was almost spiritual in its
              ivorylike purity though her rosebud mouth was a genuine Cupid's bow,
              Greekly perfect. Her hands were of finely veined alabaster with tapering
              fingers and as white as lemonjuice and queen of ointments could make them
              though it was not true that she used to wear kid gloves in bed or take a milk
              footbath either. Bertha Supple told that once to Edy Boardman, a deliberate
              lie, when she was black out at daggers drawn with Gerty (the girl chums
              had of course their little tiffs from time to time like the rest of mortals) and
              she told her not to let on whatever she did that it was her that told her or
              she'd never speak to her again. No. Honour where honour is due. There
              was an innate refinement, a languid queenly hauteur about Gerty which
              was unmistakably evidenced in her delicate hands and higharched instep.
              Had kind fate but willed her to be born a gentlewoman of high degree in
              her own right and had she only received the benefit of a good education
              Gerty MacDowell might easily have held her own beside any lady in the
              land and have seen herself exquisitely gowned with jewels on her brow and
              patrician suitors at her feet vying with one another to pay their devoirs to
              her. Mayhap it was this, the love that might have been, that lent to her
              softlyfeatured face at whiles a look, tense with suppressed meaning, that
              imparted a strange yearning tendency to the beautiful eyes, a charm few
              could resist. Why have women such eyes of witchery? Gerty's were of the
              bluest Irish blue, set off by lustrous lashes and dark expressive brows. Time
              was when those brows were not so silkily seductive. It was Madame Vera
              Verity, directress of the Woman Beautiful page of the Princess Novelette,
              who had first advised her to try eyebrowleine which gave that haunting
              expression to the eyes, so becoming in leaders of fashion, and she had never
              regretted it. Then there was blushing scientifically cured and how to be tall
              increase your height and you have a beautiful face but your nose? That
              would suit Mrs Dignam because she had a button one. But Gerty's
              crowning glory was her wealth of wonderful hair. It was dark brown with a
              natural wave in it. She had cut it that very morning on account of the new
              moon and it nestled about her pretty head in a profusion of luxuriant
              clusters and pared her nails too, Thursday for wealth. And just now at
              Edy's words as a telltale flush, delicate as the faintest rosebloom, crept into
              her cheeks she looked so lovely in her sweet girlish shyness that of a surety
              God's fair land of Ireland did not hold her equal.

                PARFor an instant she was silent with rather sad downcast eyes. She was
                about to retort but something checked the words on her tongue. Inclination
                prompted her to speak out: dignity told her to be silent. The pretty lips

                pouted awhile but then she glanced up and broke out into a joyous little
                laugh which had in it all the freshness of a young May morning. She knew

                  right well, no-one better, what made squinty Edy say that because of him
                  cooling in his attentions when it was simply a lovers' quarrel. As per usual
                  somebody's nose was out of joint about the boy that had the bicycle off the
                  London bridge road always riding up and down in front of her window.
                  Only now his father kept him in in the evenings studying hard to get an
                  exhibition in the intermediate that was on and he was going to go to Trinity
                  college to study for a doctor when he left the high school like his brother
                  W. E. Wylie who was racing in the bicycle races in Trinity college
                  university. Little recked he perhaps for what she felt, that dull aching void
                  in her heart sometimes, piercing to the core. Yet he was young and
                  perchance he might learn to love her in time. They were protestants in his
                  family and of course Gerty knew Who came first and after Him the Blessed
                  Virgin and then Saint Joseph. But he was undeniably handsome with an
                  exquisite nose and he was what he looked, every inch a gentleman, the
                  shape of his head too at the back without his cap on that she would know
                  anywhere something off the common and the way he turned the bicycle at
                  the lamp with his hands off the bars and also the nice perfume of those good
                  cigarettes and besides they were both of a size too he and she and that was
                  why Edy Boardman thought she was so frightfully clever because he didn't
                  go and ride up and down in front of her bit of a garden.

                  PARGerty was dressed simply but with the instinctive taste of a votary of
                  Dame Fashion for she felt that there was just a might that he might be out.
                  A neat blouse of electric blue selftinted by dolly dyes (because it was
                  expected in the Lady's Pictorial that electric blue would be worn) with a
                  smart vee opening down to the division and kerchief pocket (in which she
                  always kept a piece of cottonwool scented with her favourite perfume
                  because the handkerchief spoiled the sit) and a navy threequarter skirt cut
                  to the stride showed off her slim graceful figure to perfection. She wore a
                  coquettish little love of a hat of wideleaved nigger straw contrast trimmed
                  with an underbrim of eggblue chenille and at the side a butterfly bow of silk
                  to tone. All Tuesday week afternoon she was hunting to match that chenille
                  but at last she found what she wanted at Clery's summer sales, the very it,
                  slightly shopsoiled but you would never notice, seven fingers two and a
                  penny. She did it up all by herself and what joy was hers when she tried it
                  on then, smiling at the lovely reflection which the mirror gave back to her!
                  And when she put it on the waterjug to keep the shape she knew that that
                  would take the shine out of some people she knew. Her shoes were the
                  newest thing in footwear (Edy Boardman prided herself that she was very
                  petite but she never had a foot like Gerty MacDowell, a five, and never
                  would ash, oak or elm) with patent toecaps and just one smart buckle over
                  her higharched instep. Her wellturned ankle displayed its perfect
                  proportions beneath her skirt and just the proper amount and no more of
                  her shapely limbs encased in finespun hose with highspliced heels and wide

                  garter tops. As for undies they were Gerty's chief care and who that knows
                  the fluttering hopes and fears of sweet seventeen (though Gerty would never
                  see seventeen again) can find it in his heart to blame her? She had four
                  dinky sets with awfully pretty stitchery, three garments and nighties extra,
                  and each set slotted with different coloured ribbons, rosepink, pale blue,
                  mauve and peagreen, and she aired them herself and blued them when they
                  came home from the wash and ironed them and she had a brickbat to keep
                  the iron on because she wouldn't trust those washerwomen as far as she'd
                  see them scorching the things. She was wearing the blue for luck, hoping
                  against hope, her own colour and lucky too for a bride to have a bit of blue
                  somewhere on her because the green she wore that day week brought grief
                  because his father brought him in to study for the intermediate exhibition
                  and because she thought perhaps he might be out because when she was
                  dressing that morning she nearly slipped up the old pair on her inside out
                  and that was for luck and lovers' meeting if you put those things on inside
                  out or if they got untied that he was thinking about you so long as it wasn't
                  of a Friday.

                  PARAnd yet - and yet! That strained look on her face! A gnawing sorrow
                  is there all the time. Her very soul is in her eyes and she would give worlds
                  to be in the privacy of her own familiar chamber where, giving way to tears,
                  she could have a good cry and relieve her pentup feelings though not too
                  much because she knew how to cry nicely before the mirror. You are lovely,
                  Gerty, it said. The paly light of evening falls upon a face infinitely sad and
                  wistful. Gerty MacDowell yearns in vain. Yes, she had known from the very
                  first that her daydream of a marriage has been arranged and the
                  weddingbells ringing for Mrs Reggy Wylie T. C. D. (because the one who
                  married the elder brother would be Mrs Wylie) and in the fashionable
                  intelligence Mrs Gertrude Wylie was wearing a sumptuous confection of
                  grey trimmed with expensive blue fox was not to be. He was too young to
                  understand. He would not believe in love, a woman's birthright. The night
                  of the party long ago in Stoer's (he was still in short trousers) when they
                  were alone and he stole an arm round her waist she went white to the very
                  lips. He called her little one in a strangely husky voice and snatched a half
                  kiss (the first!) but it was only the end of her nose and then he hastened
                  from the room with a remark about refreshments. Impetuous fellow!
                  Strength of character had never been Reggy Wylie's strong point and he
                  who would woo and win Gerty MacDowell must be a man among men. But
                  waiting, always waiting to be asked and it was leap year too and would
                  soon be over. No prince charming is her beau ideal to lay a rare and
                  wondrous love at her feet but rather a manly man with a strong quiet face
                  who had not found his ideal, perhaps his hair slightly flecked with grey, and
                  who would understand, take her in his sheltering arms, strain her to him in
                  all the strength of his deep passionate nature and comfort her with a long
                  long kiss. It would be like heaven. For such a one she yearns this balmy

                  summer eve. With all the heart of her she longs to be his only, his affianced
                  bride for riches for poor, in sickness in health, till death us two part, from
                  this to this day forward.

                  PARAnd while Edy Boardman was with little Tommy behind the pushcar
                  she was just thinking would the day ever come when she could call herself
                  his little wife to be. Then they could talk about her till they went blue in the
                  face, Bertha Supple too, and Edy, little spitfire, because she would be
                  twentytwo in November. She would care for him with creature comforts
                  too for Gerty was womanly wise and knew that a mere man liked that
                  feeling of hominess. Her griddlecakes done to a goldenbrown hue and
                  queen Ann's pudding of delightful creaminess had won golden opinions
                  from all because she had a lucky hand also for lighting a fire, dredge in the
                  fine selfraising flour and always stir in the same direction, then cream the
                  milk and sugar and whisk well the white of eggs though she didn't like the
                  eating part when there were any people that made her shy and often she
                  wondered why you couldn't eat something poetical like violets or roses and
                  they would have a beautifully appointed drawingroom with pictures and
                  engravings and the photograph of grandpapa Giltrap's lovely dog
                  Garryowen that almost talked it was so human and chintz covers for the
                  chairs and that silver toastrack in Clery's summer jumble sales like they
                  have in rich houses. He would be tall with broad shoulders (she had always
                  admired tall men for a husband) with glistening white teeth under his
                  carefully trimmed sweeping moustache and they would go on the continent
                  for their honeymoon (three wonderful weeks!) and then, when they settled
                  down in a nice snug and cosy little homely house, every morning they
                  would both have brekky, simple but perfectly served, for their own two
                  selves and before he went out to business he would give his dear little wifey
                  a good hearty hug and gaze for a moment deep down into her eyes.


                    PAREdy Boardman asked Tommy Caffrey was he done and he said yes so
                    then she buttoned up his little knickerbockers for him and told him to run
                    off and play with Jacky and to be good now and not to fight. But Tommy
                    said he wanted the ball and Edy told him no that baby was playing with the
                    ball and if he took it there'd be wigs on the green but Tommy said it was his
                    ball and he wanted his ball and he pranced on the ground, if you please.
                    The temper of him! O, he was a man already was little Tommy Caffrey
                    since he was out of pinnies. Edy told him no, no and to be off now with him
                    and she told Cissy Caffrey not to give in to him.

                    PAR—You're not my sister, naughty Tommy said. It's my ball.

                    PARBut Cissy Caffrey told baby Boardman to look up, look up high at her
                    finger and she snatched the ball quickly and threw it along the sand and
                    Tommy after it in full career, having won the day.

                    PAR—Anything for a quiet life, laughed Ciss.

                    PARAnd she tickled tiny tot's two cheeks to make him forget and played
                    here's the lord mayor, here's his two horses, here's his gingerbread carriage

                    and here he walks in, chinchopper, chinchopper, chinchopper chin. But
                    Edy got as cross as two sticks about him getting his own way like that from
                    everyone always petting him.

                    PAR—I'd like to give him something, she said, so I would, where I won't say.

                    PAR—On the beeoteetom, laughed Cissy merrily.

                    PARGerty MacDowell bent down her head and crimsoned at the idea of
                    Cissy saying an unladylike thing like that out loud she'd be ashamed of her
                    life to say, flushing a deep rosy red, and Edy Boardman said she was sure
                    the gentleman opposite heard what she said. But not a pin cared Ciss.

                    PAR—Let him! she said with a pert toss of her head and a piquant tilt of her
                    Give it to him too on the same place as quick as I'd look at him.


                      PAR Madcap Ciss with her golliwog curls. You had to laugh at her
                      sometimes. For instance when she asked you would you have some more
                      Chinese tea and jaspberry ram and when she drew the jugs too and the
                      men's faces on her nails with red ink make you split your sides or when she
                      wanted to go where you know she said she wanted to run and pay a visit to
                      the Miss White. That was just like Cissycums. O, and will you ever forget
                      her the evening she dressed up in her father's suit and hat and the burned
                      cork moustache and walked down Tritonville road, smoking a cigarette.
                      There was none to come up to her for fun. But she was sincerity itself, one
                      of the bravest and truest hearts heaven ever made, not one of your twofaced
                      things, too sweet to be wholesome.


                        PARAnd then there came out upon the air the sound of voices and the
                        pealing anthem of the organ.

                          . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . It was the men's temperance retreat conducted
                          by the missioner, the reverend John Hughes S. J., rosary, sermon and
                          benediction of the Most Blessed Sacrament. They were there gathered
                          together without distinction of social class (and a most edifying spectacle it
                          was to see) in that simple fane beside the waves, after the storms of this
                          weary world, kneeling before the feet of the immaculate, reciting the litany
                          of Our Lady of Loreto, beseeching her to intercede for them, the old
                          familiar words, holy Mary, holy virgin of virgins.
                            . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .How sad to poor Gerty's
                            ears! Had her father only avoided the clutches of the demon drink, by
                            taking the pledge or those powders the drink habit cured in Pearson's
                            Weekly, she might now be rolling in her carriage, second to none. Over and
                            over had she told herself that as she mused by the dying embers in a brown
                            study without the lamp because she hated two lights or oftentimes gazing
                            out of the window dreamily by the hour at the rain falling on the rusty
                            bucket, thinking. But that vile decoction which has ruined so many hearths
                            and homes had cast its shadow over her childhood days. Nay, she had even
                            witnessed in the home circle deeds of violence caused by intemperance and
                            had seen her own father, a prey to the fumes of intoxication, forget himself
                            completely for if there was one thing of all things that Gerty knew it was
                            that the man who lifts his hand to a woman save in the way of kindness,
                            deserves to be branded as the lowest of the low.



                              PARAnd still the voices sang in supplication to the Virgin most powerful,
                              Virgin most merciful. And Gerty, rapt in thought, scarce saw or heard her
                              companions or the twins at their boyish gambols or the gentleman off
                              Sandymount green that Cissy Caffrey called the man that was so like
                              himself passing along the strand taking a short walk.
                              You never saw him

                                any way screwed but still and for all that she would not like him for a father
                                because he was too old or something or on account of his face (it was a
                                palpable case of Doctor Fell) or his carbuncly nose with the pimples on it
                                and his sandy moustache a bit white under his nose. Poor father! With all
                                his faults she loved him still when he sang Tell me, Mary, how to woo thee
                                or My love and cottage near Rochelle and they had stewed cockles and
                                lettuce with Lazenby's salad dressing for supper and when he sang The
                                moon hath raised
                                with Mr Dignam that died suddenly and was buried, God
                                have mercy on him, from a stroke. Her mother's birthday that was and
                                Charley was home on his holidays and Tom and Mr Dignam and Mrs and
                                Patsy and Freddy Dignam and they were to have had a group taken.
                                No-one would have thought the end was so near. Now he was laid to rest.
                                And her mother said to him to let that be a warning to him for the rest of his
                                days and he couldn't even go to the funeral on account of the gout and she
                                had to go into town to bring him the letters and samples from his office
                                about Catesby's cork lino, artistic, standard designs, fit for a palace, gives
                                tiptop wear and always bright and cheery in the home.

                                PARA sterling good daughter was Gerty just like a second mother in the
                                house, a ministering angel too with a little heart worth its weight in gold.
                                And when her mother had those raging splitting headaches who was it
                                rubbed the menthol cone on her forehead but Gerty though she didn't like
                                her mother's taking pinches of snuff and that was the only single thing they
                                ever had words about, taking snuff. Everyone thought the world of her for
                                her gentle ways. It was Gerty who turned off the gas at the main every night
                                and it was Gerty who tacked up on the wall of that place where she never
                                forgot every fortnight the chlorate of lime Mr Tunney the grocer's
                                christmas almanac, the picture of halcyon days where a young gentleman in
                                the costume they used to wear then with a threecornered hat was offering a
                                bunch of flowers to his ladylove with oldtime chivalry through her lattice
                                window. You could see there was a story behind it. The colours were done
                                something lovely. She was in a soft clinging white in a studied attitude and
                                the gentleman was in chocolate and he looked a thorough aristocrat. She
                                often looked at them dreamily when she went there for a certain purpose
                                and felt her own arms that were white and soft just like hers with the sleeves
                                back and thought about those times because she had found out in Walker's
                                pronouncing dictionary that belonged to grandpapa Giltrap about the
                                halcyon days what they meant.


                                  PARThe twins were now playing in the most approved brotherly fashion
                                  till at last Master Jacky who was really as bold as brass there was no getting
                                  behind that deliberately kicked the ball as hard as ever he could down  

                                  towards the seaweedy rocks. Needless to say poor Tommy was not slow to
                                  voice his dismay but luckily the gentleman in black who was sitting there by
                                  himself came gallantly to the rescue and intercepted the ball. Our two
                                  champions claimed their plaything with lusty cries and to avoid trouble
                                  Cissy Caffrey called to the gentleman to throw it to her please. The
                                  gentleman aimed the ball once or twice and then threw it up the strand
                                  towards Cissy Caffrey but it rolled down the slope and stopped right under
                                  Gerty's skirt near the little pool by the rock. The twins clamoured again for
                                  it and Cissy told her to kick it away and let them fight for it so Gerty drew
                                  back her foot but she wished their stupid ball hadn't come rolling down to
                                  her and she gave a kick but she missed and Edy and Cissy laughed.

                                  PAR—If you fail try again, Edy Boardman said.

                                  PARGerty smiled assent and bit her lip. A delicate pink crept into her
                                  pretty cheek but she was determined to let them see so she just lifted her
                                  skirt a little but just enough and took good aim and gave the ball a jolly
                                  good kick and it went ever so far and the two twins after it down towards
                                  the shingle.

                                    . . . . . . . . . . . Pure jealousy of course it was nothing else to draw attention on
                                    account of the gentleman opposite looking. She felt the warm flush, a
                                    danger signal always with Gerty MacDowell, surging and flaming into her
                                    cheeks. Till then they had only exchanged glances of the most casual but
                                    now under the brim of her new hat she ventured a look at him and the face
                                    that met her gaze there in the twilight, wan and strangely drawn, seemed to
                                    her the saddest she had ever seen.

                                      PARThrough the open window of the church the fragrant incense was
                                      wafted and with it the fragrant names of her who was conceived without
                                      stain of original sin,

                                        . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . spiritual vessel, pray for us, honourable vessel, pray for
                                        us, vessel of singular devotion, pray for us, mystical rose. And careworn
                                        hearts were there and toilers for their daily bread and many who had erred
                                        and wandered, their eyes wet with contrition but for all that bright with
                                        hope for the reverend father Father Hughes had told them what the great
                                        saint Bernard said in his famous prayer of Mary, the most pious Virgin's
                                        intercessory power that it was not recorded in any age that those who
                                        implored her powerful protection were ever abandoned by her.

                                          PARThe twins were now playing again right merrily for the troubles of
                                          childhood are but as fleeting summer showers. Cissy Caffrey played with
                                          baby Boardman till he crowed with glee, clapping baby hands in air. Peep
                                          she cried behind the hood of the pushcar and Edy asked where was Cissy
                                          gone and then Cissy popped up her head and cried ah! and, my word,
                                          didn't the little chap enjoy that! And then she told him to say papa.

                                          PAR—Say papa, baby. Say pa pa pa pa pa pa pa.

                                          PARAnd baby did his level best to say it .

                                            . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . for he was very intelligent for
                                            eleven months everyone said and big for his age and the picture of health, a
                                            perfect little bunch of love, and he would certainly turn out to be something
                                            great, they said.

                                              PAR—Haja ja ja haja.

                                              PARCissy wiped his little mouth with the dribbling bib and wanted him to
                                              sit up properly and say pa pa pa but when she undid the strap she cried out,
                                              holy saint Denis, that he was possing wet and to double the half blanket the
                                              other way under him. Of course his infant majesty was most obstreperous
                                              at such toilet formalities and he let everyone know it:

                                              PAR—Habaa baaaahabaaa baaaa.

                                              PARAnd two great big lovely big tears coursing down his cheeks. It was
                                              all no use soothering him with no, nono, baby, no and telling him about the
                                              geegee and where was the puffpuff but Ciss, always readywitted, gave him
                                              in his mouth the teat of the suckingbottle and the young heathen was
                                              quickly appeased.


                                                PARGerty wished to goodness they would take their squalling baby home
                                                out of that and not get on her nerves, no hour to be out, and the little brats
                                                of twins.
                                                She gazed out towards the distant sea. It was like the paintings
                                                that man used to do on the pavement with all the coloured chalks and such
                                                a pity too leaving them there to be all blotted out, the evening and the clouds
                                                coming out and the Bailey light on Howth and to hear the music like that
                                                and the perfume of those incense they burned in the church like a kind of
                                                waft. And while she gazed her heart went pitapat. Yes, it was her he was
                                                looking at, and there was meaning in his look. His eyes burned into her as
                                                though they would search her through and through, read her very soul.
                                                Wonderful eyes they were, superbly expressive, but could you trust them?
                                                People were so queer. She could see at once by his dark eyes and his pale
                                                intellectual face that he was a foreigner, the image of the photo she had of
                                                Martin Harvey, the matinee idol, only for the moustache which she
                                                preferred because she wasn't stagestruck like Winny Rippingham that
                                                wanted they two to always dress the same on account of a play but she
                                                could not see whether he had an aquiline nose or a slightly retrousse from
                                                where he was sitting. He was in deep mourning, she could see that, and the
                                                story of a haunting sorrow was written on his face. She would have given
                                                worlds to know what it was. He was looking up so intently, so still, and he
                                                saw her kick the ball and perhaps he could see the bright steel buckles of
                                                her shoes if she swung them like that thoughtfully with the toes down. She
                                                was glad that something told her to put on the transparent stockings
                                                thinking Reggy Wylie might be out but that was far away. Here was that of
                                                which she had so often dreamed. It was he who mattered and there was joy
                                                on her face because she wanted him because she felt instinctively that he
                                                was like no-one else. The very heart of the girlwoman went out to him, her
                                                dreamhusband, because she knew on the instant it was him. If he had
                                                suffered, more sinned against than sinning, or even, even, if he had been
                                                himself a sinner, a wicked man, she cared not. Even if he was a protestant
                                                or methodist she could convert him easily if he truly loved her. There were
                                                wounds that wanted healing with heartbalm. She was a womanly woman
                                                not like other flighty girls unfeminine he had known, those cyclists showing
                                                off what they hadn't got and she just yearned to know all, to forgive all if

                                                she could make him fall in love with her, make him forget the memory of
                                                the past. Then mayhap he would embrace her gently, like a real man,
                                                crushing her soft body to him, and love her, his ownest girlie, for herself


                                                  PARRefuge of sinners. Comfortress of the afflicted. Ora pro nobis. Well
                                                  has it been said that whosoever prays to her with faith and constancy can
                                                  never be lost or cast away: and fitly is she too a haven of refuge for the
                                                  afflicted because of the seven dolours which transpierced her own heart.

                                                    Gerty could picture the whole scene in the church, the stained glass
                                                    windows lighted up, the candles, the flowers and the blue banners of the
                                                    blessed Virgin's sodality and Father Conroy was helping Canon O'Hanlon
                                                    at the altar, carrying things in and out with his eyes cast down. He looked
                                                    almost a saint and his confessionbox was so quiet and clean and dark and
                                                    his hands were just like white wax and if ever she became a Dominican nun
                                                    in their white habit perhaps he might come to the convent for the novena of
                                                    Saint Dominic. He told her that time when she told him about that in
                                                    confession, crimsoning up to the roots of her hair for fear he could see, not
                                                    to be troubled because that was only the voice of nature and we were all
                                                    subject to nature's laws, he said, in this life and that that was no sin because
                                                    that came from the nature of woman instituted by God, he said, and that
                                                    Our Blessed Lady herself said to the archangel Gabriel be it done unto me
                                                    according to Thy Word. He was so kind and holy and often and often she
                                                    thought and thought could she work a ruched teacosy with embroidered
                                                    floral design for him as a present or a clock but they had a clock she noticed
                                                    on the mantelpiece white and gold with a canarybird that came out of a
                                                    little house to tell the time the day she went there about the flowers for the
                                                    forty hours' adoration because it was hard to know what sort of a present
                                                    to give or perhaps an album of illuminated views of Dublin or some place.

                                                      PARThe exasperating little brats of twins began to quarrel again and
                                                      Jacky threw the ball out towards the sea and they both ran after it.

                                                        . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Little
                                                        monkeys common as ditchwater. Someone ought to take them and give
                                                        them a good hiding for themselves to keep them in their places, the both of
                                                          . . . . . And Cissy and Edy shouted after them to come back because they
                                                          were afraid the tide might come in on them and be drowned.

                                                          PAR—Jacky! Tommy!

                                                          PARNot they! What a great notion they had! So Cissy said it was the very
                                                          last time she'd ever bring them out. She jumped up and called them and she
                                                          ran down the slope past him, tossing her hair behind her

                                                            . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . which had a good
                                                            enough colour if there had been more of it but with all the thingamerry she
                                                            was always rubbing into it she couldn't get it to grow long because it wasn't
                                                            natural so she could just go and throw her hat at it. She ran with long
                                                            gandery strides it was a wonder she didn't rip up her skirt at the side that
                                                            was too tight on her because there was a lot of the tomboy about Cissy
                                                            Caffrey and she was a forward piece whenever she thought she had a good
                                                            opportunity to show and just because she was a good runner she ran like

                                                            that so that he could see all the end of her petticoat running and her skinny
                                                            shanks up as far as possible. It would have served her just right if she had
                                                            tripped up over something accidentally on purpose with her high crooked
                                                            French heels on her to make her look tall and got a fine tumble. Tableau!
                                                            That would have been a very charming expose for a gentleman like that to


                                                              PAR Queen of angels, queen of patriarchs, queen of prophets, of all saints,
                                                              they prayed, queen of the most holy rosary and then Father Conroy handed
                                                              the thurible to Canon O'Hanlon and he put in the incense and censed the
                                                              Blessed Sacrament

                                                                . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and Cissy Caffrey caught the two twins and she was
                                                                itching to give them a ringing good clip on the ear but she didn't because
                                                                she thought he might be watching but she never made a bigger mistake in all
                                                                her life because Gerty could see without looking that he never took his eyes
                                                                off of her
                                                                  . . . . . . . . . . and then Canon O'Hanlon handed the thurible back to Father
                                                                  Conroy and knelt down looking up at the Blessed Sacrament and the choir
                                                                  began to sing the Tantum ergo
                                                                    . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and she just swung her foot in and out in
                                                                    time as the music rose and fell to the tantumer gosa cramen tum. Three and
                                                                    eleven she paid for those stockings in Sparrow's of George's street on the
                                                                    Tuesday, no the Monday before Easter and there wasn't a brack on them
                                                                    and that was what he was looking at, transparent, and not at her
                                                                    insignificant ones that had neither shape nor form (the cheek of her!)
                                                                    because he had eyes in his head to see the difference for himself.

                                                                      PAR Cissy came up along the strand with the two twins and their ball with
                                                                      her hat anyhow on her to one side after her run and she did look a streel
                                                                      tugging the two kids along with the flimsy blouse she bought only a
                                                                      fortnight before like a rag on her back and a bit of her petticoat hanging
                                                                      like a caricature. Gerty just took off her hat for a moment to settle her hair

                                                                        and a prettier, a daintier head of nutbrown tresses was never seen on a
                                                                        girl's shoulders - a radiant little vision, in sooth, almost maddening in its
                                                                        sweetness. You would have to travel many a long mile before you found a
                                                                        head of hair the like of that. She could almost see the swift answering flash
                                                                        of admiration in his eyes that set her tingling in every nerve.
                                                                          . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . She put on her
                                                                          hat so that she could see from underneath the brim and swung her buckled
                                                                          shoe faster for her breath caught as she caught the expression in his eyes.
                                                                          He was eying her as a snake eyes its prey. Her woman's instinct told her
                                                                          that she had raised the devil in him and at the thought a burning scarlet
                                                                          swept from throat to brow till the lovely colour of her face became a
                                                                          glorious rose.

                                                                          PAREdy Boardman was noticing it too because she was squinting at
                                                                          Gerty, half smiling, with her specs like an old maid, pretending to nurse the

                                                                            . . . . . Irritable little gnat she was and always would be and that was why
                                                                            no-one could get on with her poking her nose into what was no concern of
                                                                              . . . . . And she said to Gerty:

                                                                              PAR—A penny for your thoughts.

                                                                              PAR—What? replied Gerty with a smile reinforced by the whitest of teeth. I was
                                                                              only wondering was it late.

                                                                              PARBecause she wished to goodness they'd take the snottynosed twins and
                                                                              their babby home to the mischief out of that so that was why she just gave a
                                                                              gentle hint about its being late. And when Cissy came up Edy asked her the
                                                                              time and Miss Cissy, as glib as you like, said it was half past kissing time,
                                                                              time to kiss again. But Edy wanted to know because they were told to be in

                                                                              PAR—Wait, said Cissy, I'll run ask my uncle Peter over there what's the time by
                                                                              his conundrum.

                                                                              PARSo over she went and when he saw her coming she could see him take
                                                                              his hand out of his pocket, getting nervous, and beginning to play with his
                                                                              watchchain, looking up at the church.

                                                                                . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Passionate nature though he was
                                                                                Gerty could see that he had enormous control over himself. One moment he
                                                                                had been there, fascinated by a loveliness that made him gaze, and the next
                                                                                moment it was the quiet gravefaced gentleman, selfcontrol expressed in
                                                                                every line of his distinguishedlooking figure.

                                                                                  PAR Cissy said to excuse her would he mind please telling her what was
                                                                                  the right time and Gerty could see him taking out his watch, listening to it
                                                                                  and looking up and clearing his throat and he said he was very sorry his
                                                                                  watch was stopped but he thought it must be after eight because the sun was
                                                                                  set. His voice had a cultured ring in it and though he spoke in measured
                                                                                  accents there was a suspicion of a quiver in the mellow tones. Cissy said
                                                                                  thanks and came back with her tongue out and said uncle said his
                                                                                  waterworks were out of order.


                                                                                    PARThen they sang the second verse of the Tantum ergo and Canon
                                                                                    O'Hanlon got up again and censed the Blessed Sacrament and knelt down
                                                                                    and he told Father Conroy that one of the candles was just going to set fire
                                                                                    to the flowers and Father Conroy got up and settled it all right

                                                                                      . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and she
                                                                                      could see the gentleman winding his watch and listening to the works and
                                                                                      she swung her leg more in and out in time. It was getting darker but he
                                                                                      could see and he was looking all the time that he was winding the watch or
                                                                                      whatever he was doing to it and then he put it back and put his hands back
                                                                                      into his pockets.
                                                                                        . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . She felt a kind of a sensation rushing all over her and she
                                                                                        knew by the feel of her scalp and that irritation against her stays that that
                                                                                        thing must be coming on because the last time too was when she clipped her
                                                                                        hair on account of the moon. His dark eyes fixed themselves on her again
                                                                                        drinking in her every contour, literally worshipping at her shrine. If ever
                                                                                        there was undisguised admiration in a man's passionate gaze it was there
                                                                                        plain to be seen on that man's face. It is for you, Gertrude MacDowell, and
                                                                                        you know it.

                                                                                          PAREdy began to get ready to go and it was high time for her and Gerty
                                                                                          noticed that that little hint she gave had had the desired effect because it was
                                                                                          a long way along the strand to where there was the place to push up the
                                                                                          pushcar and Cissy took off the twins' caps and tidied their hair to make

                                                                                          herself attractive of course .

                                                                                            . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and Canon O'Hanlon stood up with his cope
                                                                                            poking up at his neck and Father Conroy handed him the card to read off
                                                                                            and he read out Panem de coelo praestitisti eis
                                                                                              . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and Edy and Cissy were
                                                                                              talking about the time all the time and asking her but Gerty could pay them
                                                                                              back in their own coin and she just answered with scathing politeness when
                                                                                              Edy asked her was she heartbroken about her best boy throwing her over.
                                                                                              Gerty winced sharply. A brief cold blaze shone from her eyes that spoke
                                                                                              volumes of scorn immeasurable.
                                                                                                . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . It hurt - O yes, it cut deep because Edy
                                                                                                had her own quiet way of saying things like that she knew would wound
                                                                                                like the confounded little cat she was. Gerty's lips parted swiftly to frame
                                                                                                the word but she fought back the sob that rose to her throat, so slim, so
                                                                                                flawless, so beautifully moulded it seemed one an artist might have dreamed
                                                                                                of. She had loved him better than he knew. Lighthearted deceiver and fickle
                                                                                                like all his sex he would never understand what he had meant to her and for
                                                                                                an instant there was in the blue eyes a quick stinging of tears.
                                                                                                  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Their eyes
                                                                                                  were probing her mercilessly but with a brave effort she sparkled back in
                                                                                                  sympathy as she glanced at her new conquest for them to see.

                                                                                                  PAR—O, responded Gerty, quick as lightning, laughing, and the proud head
                                                                                                  flashed up.
                                                                                                  I can throw my cap at who I like because it's leap year.

                                                                                                  PAR Her words rang out crystalclear, more musical than the cooing of the
                                                                                                  ringdove, but they cut the silence icily.

                                                                                                    . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . There was that in her young voice
                                                                                                    that told that she was not a one to be lightly trifled with. As for Mr Reggy
                                                                                                    with his swank and his bit of money she could just chuck him aside as if he
                                                                                                    was so much filth and never again would she cast as much as a second
                                                                                                    thought on him and tear his silly postcard into a dozen pieces. And if ever
                                                                                                    after he dared to presume she could give him one look of measured scorn
                                                                                                    that would make him shrivel up on the spot. Miss puny little Edy's
                                                                                                    countenance fell to no slight extent and Gerty could see by her looking as
                                                                                                    black as thunder that she was simply in a towering rage though she hid it,
                                                                                                    the little kinnatt, because that shaft had struck home for her petty jealousy
                                                                                                    and they both knew that she was something aloof, apart, in another sphere,
                                                                                                    that she was not of them and never would be and there was somebody else
                                                                                                    too that knew it and saw it so they could put that in their pipe and smoke it.

                                                                                                      PAREdy straightened up baby Boardman to get ready to go and Cissy
                                                                                                      tucked in the ball and the spades and buckets and it was high time too
                                                                                                      because the sandman was on his way for Master Boardman junior. And
                                                                                                      Cissy told him too that billy winks was coming and that baby was to go
                                                                                                      deedaw and baby looked just too ducky, laughing up out of his gleeful eyes,
                                                                                                      and Cissy poked him like that out of fun in his wee fat tummy and baby,
                                                                                                      without as much as by your leave, sent up his compliments to all and sundry
                                                                                                      on to his brandnew dribbling bib.

                                                                                                      PAR—O my! Puddeny pie! protested Ciss. He has his bib destroyed.

                                                                                                      PARThe slight contretemps claimed her attention but in two twos she set
                                                                                                      that little matter to rights.

                                                                                                      PARGerty stifled a smothered exclamation and gave a nervous cough and
                                                                                                      Edy asked what and she was just going to tell her to catch it while it was
                                                                                                      flying but she was ever ladylike in her deportment so she simply passed it
                                                                                                      off with consummate tact by saying that

                                                                                                        . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . that was the benediction because
                                                                                                        just then the bell rang out from the steeple over the quiet seashore because
                                                                                                        Canon O'Hanlon was up on the altar with the veil that Father Conroy put
                                                                                                        round his shoulders giving the benediction with the Blessed Sacrament in
                                                                                                        his hands.

                                                                                                          PARHow moving the scene there in the gathering twilight, the last glimpse
                                                                                                          of Erin, the touching chime of those evening bells and at the same time a bat
                                                                                                          flew forth from the ivied belfry through the dusk, hither, thither, with a tiny
                                                                                                          lost cry. And she could see far away the lights of the lighthouses

                                                                                                            picturesque she would have loved to do with a box of paints because it was
                                                                                                            easier than to make a man and soon the lamplighter would be going his
                                                                                                            rounds past the presbyterian church grounds and along by shady
                                                                                                            Tritonville avenue where the couples walked and lighting the lamp near her
                                                                                                            window where Reggy Wylie used to turn his freewheel like she read in that
                                                                                                            book The Lamplighter by Miss Cummins, author of Mabel Vaughan and
                                                                                                            other tales. For Gerty had her dreams that no-one knew of. She loved to
                                                                                                            read poetry and when she got a keepsake from Bertha Supple of that lovely
                                                                                                            confession album with the coralpink cover to write her thoughts in she laid
                                                                                                            it in the drawer of her toilettable which, though it did not err on the side of
                                                                                                            luxury, was scrupulously neat and clean. It was there she kept her girlish
                                                                                                            treasure trove, the tortoiseshell combs, her child of Mary badge, the
                                                                                                            whiterose scent, the eyebrowleine, her alabaster pouncetbox and the ribbons
                                                                                                            to change when her things came home from the wash and there were some
                                                                                                            beautiful thoughts written in it in violet ink that she bought in Hely's of
                                                                                                            Dame Street for she felt that she too could write poetry if she could only
                                                                                                            express herself like that poem that appealed to her so deeply that she had
                                                                                                            copied out of the newspaper she found one evening round the potherbs. Art
                                                                                                            thou real, my ideal?
                                                                                                            it was called by Louis J Walsh, Magherafelt, and after
                                                                                                            there was something about twilight, wilt thou ever? and ofttimes the beauty
                                                                                                            of poetry, so sad in its transient loveliness, had misted her eyes with silent
                                                                                                            tears for she felt that the years were slipping by for her, one by one, and but
                                                                                                            for that one shortcoming she knew she need fear no competition and that
                                                                                                            was an accident coming down Dalkey hill and she always tried to conceal it.
                                                                                                            But it must end, she felt. If she saw that magic lure in his eyes there would
                                                                                                            be no holding back for her. Love laughs at locksmiths. She would make the
                                                                                                            great sacrifice. Her every effort would be to share his thoughts. Dearer than
                                                                                                            the whole world would she be to him and gild his days with happiness.
                                                                                                            There was the allimportant question and she was dying to know was he a
                                                                                                            married man or a widower who had lost his wife or some tragedy like the
                                                                                                            nobleman with the foreign name from the land of song had to have her put
                                                                                                            into a madhouse, cruel only to be kind. But even if- what then? Would it
                                                                                                            make a very great difference? From everything in the least indelicate her

                                                                                                            finebred nature instinctively recoiled. She loathed that sort of person, the
                                                                                                            fallen women off the accommodation walk beside the Dodder that went
                                                                                                            with the soldiers and coarse men with no respect for a girl's honour,
                                                                                                            degrading the sex and being taken up to the police station. No, no: not that.
                                                                                                            They would be just good friends like a big brother and sister without all
                                                                                                            that other in spite of the conventions of Society with a big ess. Perhaps it
                                                                                                            was an old flame he was in mourning for from the days beyond recall. She
                                                                                                            thought she understood. She would try to understand him because men
                                                                                                            were so different. The old love was waiting, waiting with little white hands
                                                                                                            stretched out, with blue appealing eyes. Heart of mine! She would follow,
                                                                                                            her dream of love,the dictates of her heart that told her he was her all in all,
                                                                                                            the only man in all the world for her for love was the master guide. Nothing
                                                                                                            else mattered. Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free.


                                                                                                              PARCanon O'Hanlon put the Blessed Sacrament back into the tabernacle
                                                                                                              and genuflected and the choir sang Laudate Dominum omnes gentes and
                                                                                                              then he locked the tabernacle door because the benediction was over and
                                                                                                              Father Conroy handed him his hat to put on

                                                                                                                . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and crosscat Edy asked wasn't
                                                                                                                she coming but Jacky Caffrey called out:

                                                                                                                PAR—O, look, Cissy!

                                                                                                                PARAnd they all looked was it sheet lightning but Tommy saw it too over
                                                                                                                the trees beside the church, blue and then green and purple.

                                                                                                                PAR—It's fireworks, Cissy Caffrey said.

                                                                                                                PARAnd they all ran down the strand to see over the houses and the
                                                                                                                church, helterskelter, Edy with the pushcar with baby Boardman in it and
                                                                                                                Cissy holding Tommy and Jacky by the hand so they wouldn't fall running.

                                                                                                                PAR—Come on, Gerty, Cissy called. It's the bazaar fireworks.

                                                                                                                PARBut Gerty was adamant. She had no intention of being at their beck
                                                                                                                and call. If they could run like rossies she could sit so she said she could see
                                                                                                                from where she was. The eyes that were fastened upon her set her pulses
                                                                                                                tingling. She looked at him a moment, meeting his glance, and a light broke
                                                                                                                in upon her.

                                                                                                                  . . . . . . . . . . Whitehot passion was in that face, passion silent as the grave,
                                                                                                                  and it had made her his. At last they were left alone without the others to
                                                                                                                  pry and pass remarks and she knew he could be trusted to the death,
                                                                                                                  steadfast, a sterling man, a man of inflexible honour to his fingertips. His
                                                                                                                  hands and face were working and a tremour went over her. She leaned
                                                                                                                  back far to look up where the fireworks were and she caught her knee in
                                                                                                                  her hands so as not to fall back looking up and there was no-one to see only
                                                                                                                  him and her when she revealed all her graceful beautifully shaped legs like
                                                                                                                  that, supply soft and delicately rounded, and she seemed to hear the panting
                                                                                                                  of his heart, his hoarse breathing, because she knew too about the passion
                                                                                                                  of men like that, hotblooded, because Bertha Supple told her once in dead
                                                                                                                  secret and made her swear she'd never about the gentleman lodger that was
                                                                                                                  staying with them out of the Congested Districts Board that had pictures
                                                                                                                  cut out of papers of those skirtdancers and highkickers and she said he
                                                                                                                  used to do something not very nice that you could imagine sometimes in the  

                                                                                                                  bed. But this was altogether different from a thing like that because there
                                                                                                                  was all the difference because she could almost feel him draw her face to his
                                                                                                                  and the first quick hot touch of his handsome lips. Besides there was
                                                                                                                  absolution so long as you didn't do the other thing before being married
                                                                                                                  and there ought to be women priests that would understand without your
                                                                                                                  telling out and Cissy Caffrey too sometimes had that dreamy kind of
                                                                                                                  dreamy look in her eyes so that she too, my dear, and Winny Rippingham
                                                                                                                  so mad about actors' photographs and besides it was on account of that
                                                                                                                  other thing coming on the way it did.


                                                                                                                    PARAnd Jacky Caffrey shouted to look, there was another and she leaned
                                                                                                                    back and the garters were blue to match on account of the transparent and
                                                                                                                    they all saw it and they all shouted to look, look, there it was and she leaned
                                                                                                                    back ever so far to see the fireworks and something queer was flying
                                                                                                                    through the air, a soft thing, to and fro, dark. And she saw a long Roman
                                                                                                                    candle going up over the trees, up, up, and, in the tense hush, they were all
                                                                                                                    breathless with excitement as it went higher and higher and she had to lean
                                                                                                                    back more and more to look up after it, high, high, almost out of sight, and
                                                                                                                    her face was suffused with a divine, an entrancing blush from straining
                                                                                                                    back and he could see her other things too, nainsook knickers, the fabric
                                                                                                                    that caresses the skin, better than those other pettiwidth, the green, four and
                                                                                                                    eleven, on account of being white and she let him and she saw that he saw
                                                                                                                    and then it went so high it went out of sight a moment and she was
                                                                                                                    trembling in every limb from being bent so far back that he had a full view
                                                                                                                    high up above her knee where no-one ever not even on the swing or wading
                                                                                                                    and she wasn't ashamed and he wasn't either to look in that immodest way
                                                                                                                    like that because he couldn't resist the sight of the wondrous revealment
                                                                                                                    half offered like those skirtdancers behaving so immodest before gentlemen
                                                                                                                    looking and he kept on looking, looking.

                                                                                                                      . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . She would fain have cried to him
                                                                                                                      chokingly, held out her snowy slender arms to him to come, to feel his lips
                                                                                                                      laid on her white brow, the cry of a young girl's love, a little strangled cry,
                                                                                                                      wrung from her, that cry that has rung through the ages.
                                                                                                                        . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And then a rocket
                                                                                                                        sprang and bang shot blind blank and O! then the Roman candle burst and
                                                                                                                        it was like a sigh of O! and everyone cried O! O! in raptures and it gushed
                                                                                                                        out of it a stream of rain gold hair threads and they shed and ah! they were
                                                                                                                        all greeny dewy stars falling with golden, O so lovely, O, soft, sweet, soft!

                                                                                                                        PARThen all melted away dewily in the grey air: all was silent. Ah! She
                                                                                                                        glanced at him as she bent forward quickly, a pathetic little glance of
                                                                                                                        piteous protest, of shy reproach under which he coloured like a girl. He was
                                                                                                                        leaning back against the rock behind. Leopold Bloom (for it is he) stands
                                                                                                                        silent, with bowed head before those young guileless eyes.

                                                                                                                          . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . What a brute he
                                                                                                                          had been! At it again? A fair unsullied soul had called to him and, wretch
                                                                                                                          that he was, how had he answered? An utter cad he had been! He of all
                                                                                                                          men! But there was an infinite store of mercy in those eyes, for him too a
                                                                                                                          word of pardon even though he had erred and sinned and wandered.
                                                                                                                          Should a girl tell? No, a thousand times no. That was their secret, only

                                                                                                                          theirs, alone in the hiding twilight and there was none to know or tell save
                                                                                                                          the little bat that flew so softly through the evening to and fro and little bats
                                                                                                                          don't tell.


                                                                                                                            PARCissy Caffrey whistled, imitating the boys in the football field to show
                                                                                                                            what a great person she was: and then she cried:

                                                                                                                            PAR—Gerty! Gerty! We're going. Come on. We can see from farther up.

                                                                                                                            PARGerty had an idea, one of love's little ruses. She slipped a hand into
                                                                                                                            her kerchief pocket and took out the wadding and waved in reply of course
                                                                                                                            without letting him and then slipped it back.

                                                                                                                              . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Wonder if he's too far to. She
                                                                                                                              rose. Was it goodbye? No. She had to go but they would meet again, there,
                                                                                                                              and she would dream of that till then, tomorrow, of her dream of yester eve.
                                                                                                                              She drew herself up to her full height. Their souls met in a last lingering
                                                                                                                              glance and the eyes that reached her heart, full of a strange shining, hung
                                                                                                                              enraptured on her sweet flowerlike face. She half smiled at him wanly, a
                                                                                                                              sweet forgiving smile, a smile that verged on tears, and then they parted.

                                                                                                                                PAR Slowly, without looking back she went down the uneven strand to
                                                                                                                                Cissy, to Edy to Jacky and Tommy Caffrey, to little baby Boardman. It was
                                                                                                                                darker now and there were stones and bits of wood on the strand and slippy
                                                                                                                                seaweed. She walked with a certain quiet dignity characteristic of her but
                                                                                                                                with care and very slowly because - because Gerty MacDowell was ...

                                                                                                                                PAR Tight boots? No. She's lame! O!

                                                                                                                                PAR Mr Bloom watched her as she limped away. Poor girl! That's why
                                                                                                                                she's left on the shelf and the others did a sprint. Thought something was
                                                                                                                                wrong by the cut of her jib. Jilted beauty. A defect is ten times worse in a
                                                                                                                                woman. But makes them polite. Glad I didn't know it when she was on
                                                                                                                                show. Hot little devil all the same. I wouldn't mind. Curiosity like a nun or
                                                                                                                                a negress or a girl with glasses. That squinty one is delicate. Near her
                                                                                                                                monthlies, I expect, makes them feel ticklish. I have such a bad headache
                                                                                                                                today. Where did I put the letter? Yes, all right. All kinds of crazy longings.
                                                                                                                                Licking pennies. Girl in Tranquilla convent that nun told me liked to smell
                                                                                                                                rock oil. Virgins go mad in the end I suppose. Sister? How many women in
                                                                                                                                Dublin have it today? Martha, she. Something in the air. That's the moon.
                                                                                                                                But then why don't all women menstruate at the same time with the same
                                                                                                                                moon, I mean? Depends on the time they were born I suppose. Or all start
                                                                                                                                scratch then get out of step. Sometimes Molly and Milly together. Anyhow I
                                                                                                                                got the best of that. Damned glad I didn't do it in the bath this morning
                                                                                                                                over her silly I will punish you letter. Made up for that tramdriver this
                                                                                                                                morning. That gouger M'Coy stopping me to say nothing. And his wife
                                                                                                                                engagement in the country valise, voice like a pickaxe. Thankful for small
                                                                                                                                mercies. Cheap too. Yours for the asking. Because they want it themselves.
                                                                                                                                Their natural craving. Shoals of them every evening poured out of offices.
                                                                                                                                Reserve better. Don't want it they throw it at you. Catch em alive, O. Pity
                                                                                                                                they can't see themselves. A dream of wellfilled hose. Where was that? Ah,
                                                                                                                                yes. Mutoscope pictures in Capel street: for men only. Peeping Tom.
                                                                                                                                Willy's hat and what the girls did with it. Do they snapshot those girls or is

                                                                                                                                it all a fake? Lingerie does it. Felt for the curves inside her deshabille.
                                                                                                                                Excites them also when they're. I'm all clean come and dirty me. And they
                                                                                                                                like dressing one another for the sacrifice. Milly delighted with Molly's new
                                                                                                                                blouse. At first. Put them all on to take them all off. Molly. Why I bought
                                                                                                                                her the violet garters. Us too: the tie he wore, his lovely socks and turnedup
                                                                                                                                trousers. He wore a pair of gaiters the night that first we met. His lovely
                                                                                                                                shirt was shining beneath his what? of jet. Say a woman loses a charm with
                                                                                                                                every pin she takes out. Pinned together. O, Mairy lost the pin of her.
                                                                                                                                Dressed up to the nines for somebody. Fashion part of their charm. Just
                                                                                                                                changes when you're on the track of the secret. Except the east: Mary,
                                                                                                                                Martha: now as then. No reasonable offer refused. She wasn't in a hurry
                                                                                                                                either. Always off to a fellow when they are. They never forget an
                                                                                                                                appointment. Out on spec probably. They believe in chance because like
                                                                                                                                themselves. And the others inclined to give her an odd dig. Girl friends at
                                                                                                                                school, arms round each other's necks or with ten fingers locked, kissing
                                                                                                                                and whispering secrets about nothing in the convent garden. Nuns with
                                                                                                                                whitewashed faces, cool coifs and their rosaries going up and down,
                                                                                                                                vindictive too for what they can't get. Barbed wire. Be sure now and write
                                                                                                                                to me. And I'll write to you. Now won't you? Molly and Josie Powell. Till
                                                                                                                                Mr Right comes along, then meet once in a blue moon. Tableau! O, look
                                                                                                                                who it is for the love of God! How are you at all? What have you been
                                                                                                                                doing with yourself? Kiss and delighted to, kiss, to see you. Picking holes in
                                                                                                                                each other's appearance. You're looking splendid. Sister souls. Showing
                                                                                                                                their teeth at one another. How many have you left? Wouldn't lend each
                                                                                                                                other a pinch of salt.


                                                                                                                                PARDevils they are when that's coming on them. Dark devilish
                                                                                                                                appearance. Molly often told me feel things a ton weight. Scratch the sole of
                                                                                                                                my foot. O that way! O, that's exquisite! Feel it myself too. Good to rest
                                                                                                                                once in a way. Wonder if it's bad to go with them then. Safe in one way.
                                                                                                                                Turns milk, makes fiddlestrings snap. Something about withering plants I
                                                                                                                                read in a garden. Besides they say if the flower withers she wears she's a
                                                                                                                                flirt. All are. Daresay she felt 1. When you feel like that you often meet what
                                                                                                                                you feel. Liked me or what? Dress they look at. Always know a fellow
                                                                                                                                courting: collars and cuffs. Well cocks and lions do the same and stags.
                                                                                                                                Same time might prefer a tie undone or something. Trousers? Suppose I
                                                                                                                                when I was? No. Gently does it. Dislike rough and tumble. Kiss in the dark
                                                                                                                                and never tell. Saw something in me. Wonder what. Sooner have me as I am
                                                                                                                                than some poet chap with bearsgrease plastery hair, lovelock over his dexter
                                                                                                                                optic. To aid gentleman in literary. Ought to attend to my appearance my
                                                                                                                                age. Didn't let her see me in profile. Still, you never know. Pretty girls and
                                                                                                                                ugly men marrying. Beauty and the beast. Besides I can't be so if Molly.
                                                                                                                                Took off her hat to show her hair. Wide brim. Bought to hide her face,
                                                                                                                                meeting someone might know her, bend down or carry a bunch of flowers
                                                                                                                                to smell. Hair strong in rut. Ten bob I got for Molly's combings when we

                                                                                                                                were on the rocks in Holles street. Why not? Suppose he gave her money.
                                                                                                                                Why not? All a prejudice. She's worth ten, fifteen, more, a pound. What? I
                                                                                                                                think so. All that for nothing. Bold hand: Mrs Marion. Did I forget to write
                                                                                                                                address on that letter like the postcard I sent to Flynn? And the day I went
                                                                                                                                to Drimmie's without a necktie. Wrangle with Molly it was put me off. No, I
                                                                                                                                remember. Richie Goulding: he's another. Weighs on his mind. Funny my
                                                                                                                                watch stopped at half past four. Dust. Shark liver oil they use to clean.
                                                                                                                                Could do it myself. Save. Was that just when he, she?

                                                                                                                                PAR O, he did. Into her. She did. Done.

                                                                                                                                PAR Ah!

                                                                                                                                PAR Mr Bloom with careful hand recomposed his wet shirt. O Lord, that
                                                                                                                                little limping devil. Begins to feel cold and clammy. Aftereffect not pleasant.
                                                                                                                                Still you have to get rid of it someway. They don't care. Complimented
                                                                                                                                perhaps. Go home to nicey bread and milky and say night prayers with the
                                                                                                                                kiddies. Well, aren't they? See her as she is spoil all. Must have the stage
                                                                                                                                setting, the rouge, costume, position, music. The name too. Amours of
                                                                                                                                actresses. Nell Gwynn, Mrs Bracegirdle, Maud Branscombe. Curtain up.
                                                                                                                                Moonlight silver effulgence. Maiden discovered with pensive bosom. Little
                                                                                                                                sweetheart come and kiss me. Still, I feel. The strength it gives a man.
                                                                                                                                That's the secret of it. Good job I let off there behind the wall coming out of
                                                                                                                                Dignam's. Cider that was. Otherwise I couldn't have. Makes you want to
                                                                                                                                sing after. Lacaus esant taratara. Suppose I spoke to her. What about? Bad
                                                                                                                                plan however if you don't know how to end the conversation. Ask them a
                                                                                                                                question they ask you another. Good idea if you're stuck. Gain time. But
                                                                                                                                then you're in a cart. Wonderful of course if you say: good evening, and
                                                                                                                                you see she's on for it: good evening. O but the dark evening in the Appian
                                                                                                                                way I nearly spoke to Mrs Clinch O thinking she was. Whew! Girl in
                                                                                                                                Meath street that night. All the dirty things I made her say. All wrong of
                                                                                                                                course. My arks she called it. It's so hard to find one who. Aho! If you
                                                                                                                                don't answer when they solicit must be horrible for them till they harden.
                                                                                                                                And kissed my hand when I gave her the extra two shillings. Parrots. Press
                                                                                                                                the button and the bird will squeak. Wish she hadn't called me sir. O, her
                                                                                                                                mouth in the dark! And you a married man with a single girl! That's what
                                                                                                                                they enjoy. Taking a man from another woman. Or even hear of it.
                                                                                                                                Different with me. Glad to get away from other chap's wife. Eating off his
                                                                                                                                cold plate. Chap in the Burton today spitting back gumchewed gristle.
                                                                                                                                French letter still in my pocketbook. Cause of half the trouble. But might
                                                                                                                                happen sometime, I don't think. Come in, all is prepared. I dreamt. What?
                                                                                                                                Worst is beginning. How they change the venue when it's not what they
                                                                                                                                like. Ask you do you like mushrooms because she once knew a gentleman
                                                                                                                                who. Or ask you what someone was going to say when he changed his
                                                                                                                                mind and stopped. Yet if I went the whole hog, say: I want to, something
                                                                                                                                like that. Because I did. She too. Offend her. Then make it up. Pretend to
                                                                                                                                want something awfully, then cry off for her sake. Flatters them. She must
                                                                                                                                have been thinking of someone else all the time. What harm? Must since she  

                                                                                                                                came to the use of reason, he, he and he. First kiss does the trick. The
                                                                                                                                propitious moment. Something inside them goes pop. Mushy like, tell by
                                                                                                                                their eye, on the sly. First thoughts are best. Remember that till their dying
                                                                                                                                day. Molly, lieutenant Mulvey that kissed her under the Moorish wall
                                                                                                                                beside the gardens. Fifteen she told me. But her breasts were developed. Fell
                                                                                                                                asleep then. After Glencree dinner that was when we drove home.
                                                                                                                                Featherbed mountain. Gnashing her teeth in sleep. Lord mayor had his eye
                                                                                                                                on her too. Val Dillon. Apoplectic.

                                                                                                                                PARThere she is with them down there for the fireworks. My fireworks.
                                                                                                                                Up like a rocket, down like a stick. And the children, twins they must be,
                                                                                                                                waiting for something to happen. Want to be grownups. Dressing in
                                                                                                                                mother's clothes. Time enough, understand all the ways of the world. And
                                                                                                                                the dark one with the mop head and the nigger mouth. I knew she could
                                                                                                                                whistle. Mouth made for that. Like Molly. Why that highclass whore in
                                                                                                                                Jammet's wore her veil only to her nose. Would you mind, please, telling me
                                                                                                                                the right time? I'll tell you the right time up a dark lane. Say prunes and
                                                                                                                                prisms forty times every morning, cure for fat lips. Caressing the little boy
                                                                                                                                too. Onlookers see most of the game. Of course they understand birds,
                                                                                                                                animals, babies. In their line.

                                                                                                                                PARDidn't look back when she was going down the strand. Wouldn't give
                                                                                                                                that satisfaction.Those girls, those girls, those lovely seaside girls.Fine eyes
                                                                                                                                she had, clear. It's the white of the eye brings that out not so much the
                                                                                                                                pupil. Did she know what I? Course. Like a cat sitting beyond a dog's
                                                                                                                                jump. Women never meet one like that Wilkins in the high school drawing a
                                                                                                                                picture of Venus with all his belongings on show. Call that innocence? Poor
                                                                                                                                idiot! His wife has her work cut out for her. Never see them sit on a bench
                                                                                                                                marked Wet Paint. Eyes all over them. Look under the bed for what's not
                                                                                                                                there. Longing to get the fright of their lives. Sharp as needles they are.
                                                                                                                                When I said to Molly the man at the corner of Cuffe street was
                                                                                                                                goodlooking, thought she might like, twigged at once he had a false arm.
                                                                                                                                Had, too. Where do they get that? Typist going up Roger Greene's stairs
                                                                                                                                two at a time to show her understandings. Handed down from father to,
                                                                                                                                mother to daughter, I mean. Bred in the bone. Milly for example drying her
                                                                                                                                handkerchief on the mirror to save the ironing. Best place for an ad to catch
                                                                                                                                a woman's eye on a mirror. And when I sent her for Molly's Paisley shawl
                                                                                                                                to Prescott's, by the way that ad I must, carrying home the change in her
                                                                                                                                stocking! Clever little minx. I never told her. Neat way she carries parcels
                                                                                                                                too. Attract men, small thing like that. Holding up her hand, shaking it, to
                                                                                                                                let the blood flow back when it was red. Who did you learn that from?
                                                                                                                                Nobody. Something the nurse taught me. O, don't they know! Three years
                                                                                                                                old she was in front of Molly's dressingtable, just before we left Lombard
                                                                                                                                street west. Me have a nice pace. Mullingar. Who knows? Ways of the
                                                                                                                                world. Young student. Straight on her pins anyway not like the other. Still
                                                                                                                                she was game. Lord, I am wet. Devil you are. Swell of her calf. Transparent

                                                                                                                                stockings, stretched to breaking point. Not like that frump today. A. E.
                                                                                                                                Rumpled stockings. Or the one in Grafton street. White. Wow! Beef to the

                                                                                                                                PARA monkey puzzle rocket burst, spluttering in darting crackles. Zrads
                                                                                                                                and zrads, zrads, zrads. And Cissy and Tommy and Jacky ran out to see
                                                                                                                                and Edy after with the pushcar and then Gerty beyond the curve of the
                                                                                                                                Will she? Watch! Watch! See! Looked round. She smelt an onion.
                                                                                                                                Darling, I saw, your. I saw all.


                                                                                                                                PARDid me good all the same. Off colour after Kiernan's, Dignam's. For
                                                                                                                                this relief much thanks. In Hamlet, that is. Lord! It was all things
                                                                                                                                combined. Excitement. When she leaned back, felt an ache at the butt of my
                                                                                                                                tongue. Your head it simply swirls. He's right. Might have made a worse
                                                                                                                                fool of myself however. Instead of talking about nothing. Then I will tell
                                                                                                                                you all. Still it was a kind of language between us. It couldn't be? No, Gerty
                                                                                                                                they called her. Might be false name however like my name and the address
                                                                                                                                Dolphin's barn a blind.

                                                                                                                                PAR Her maiden name was Jemina Brown

                                                                                                                                PAR And she lived with her mother in Irishtown.

                                                                                                                                PARPlace made me think of that I suppose. All tarred with the same
                                                                                                                                brush. Wiping pens in their stockings. But the ball rolled down to her as if it
                                                                                                                                understood. Every bullet has its billet. Course I never could throw anything
                                                                                                                                straight at school. Crooked as a ram's horn. Sad however because it lasts
                                                                                                                                only a few years till they settle down to potwalloping and papa's pants will
                                                                                                                                soon fit Willy and fuller's earth for the baby when they hold him out to do
                                                                                                                                ah ah. No soft job. Saves them. Keeps them out of harm's way. Nature.
                                                                                                                                Washing child, washing corpse. Dignam. Children's hands always round
                                                                                                                                them. Cocoanut skulls, monkeys, not even closed at first, sour milk in their
                                                                                                                                swaddles and tainted curds. Oughtn't to have given that child an empty teat
                                                                                                                                to suck. Fill it up with wind. Mrs Beaufoy, Purefoy. Must call to the
                                                                                                                                hospital. Wonder is nurse Callan there still. She used to look over some
                                                                                                                                nights when Molly was in the Coffee Palace. That young doctor O'Hare I
                                                                                                                                noticed her brushing his coat. And Mrs Breen and Mrs Dignam once like
                                                                                                                                that too, marriageable. Worst of all at night Mrs Duggan told me in the City
                                                                                                                                Arms. Husband rolling in drunk, stink of pub off him like a polecat. Have
                                                                                                                                that in your nose in the dark, whiff of stale boose. Then ask in the morning:
                                                                                                                                was I drunk last night? Bad policy however to fault the husband. Chickens
                                                                                                                                come home to roost. They stick by one another like glue. Maybe the
                                                                                                                                women's fault also. That's where Molly can knock spots off them. It's the
                                                                                                                                blood of the south. Moorish. Also the form, the figure. Hands felt for the
                                                                                                                                opulent. Just compare for instance those others. Wife locked up at home,
                                                                                                                                skeleton in the cupboard. Allow me to introduce my. Then they trot you out
                                                                                                                                some kind of a nondescript, wouldn't know what to call her. Always see a

                                                                                                                                fellow's weak point in his wife. Still there's destiny in it, falling in love.
                                                                                                                                Have their own secrets between them. Chaps that would go to the dogs if
                                                                                                                                some woman didn't take them in hand. Then little chits of girls, height of a
                                                                                                                                shilling in coppers, with little hubbies. As God made them he matched them.
                                                                                                                                Sometimes children turn out well enough. Twice nought makes one. Or old
                                                                                                                                rich chap of seventy and blushing bride. Marry in May and repent in
                                                                                                                                December. This wet is very unpleasant. Stuck. Well the foreskin is not back.
                                                                                                                                Better detach.


                                                                                                                                PAROther hand a sixfooter with a wifey up to his watchpocket. Long and
                                                                                                                                the short of it. Big he and little she. Very strange about my watch.
                                                                                                                                Wristwatches are always going wrong. Wonder is there any magnetic
                                                                                                                                influence between the person because that was about the time he. Yes, I
                                                                                                                                suppose, at once. Cat's away, the mice will play. I remember looking in Pill
                                                                                                                                lane. Also that now is magnetism. Back of everything magnetism. Earth for
                                                                                                                                instance pulling this and being pulled. That causes movement. And time,
                                                                                                                                well that's the time the movement takes. Then if one thing stopped the
                                                                                                                                whole ghesabo would stop bit by bit. Because it's all arranged. Magnetic
                                                                                                                                needle tells you what's going on in the sun, the stars. Little piece of steel
                                                                                                                                iron. When you hold out the fork. Come. Come. Tip. Woman and man that
                                                                                                                                is. Fork and steel. Molly, he. Dress up and look and suggest and let you see
                                                                                                                                and see more and defy you if you're a man to see that and, like a sneeze
                                                                                                                                coming, legs, look, look and if you have any guts in you. Tip. Have to let

                                                                                                                                PARWonder how is she feeling in that region. Shame all put on before
                                                                                                                                third person. More put out about a hole in her stocking. Molly, her
                                                                                                                                underjaw stuck out, head back, about the farmer in the ridingboots and
                                                                                                                                spurs at the horse show. And when the painters were in Lombard street
                                                                                                                                west. Fine voice that fellow had. How Giuglini began. Smell that I did. Like
                                                                                                                                flowers. It was too. Violets. Came from the turpentine probably in the
                                                                                                                                paint. Make their own use of everything. Same time doing it scraped her
                                                                                                                                slipper on the floor so they wouldn't hear. But lots of them can't kick the
                                                                                                                                beam, I think. Keep that thing up for hours. Kind of a general all round
                                                                                                                                over me and half down my back.

                                                                                                                                PARWait. Hm. Hm. Yes. That's her perfume. Why she waved her hand. I
                                                                                                                                leave you this to think of me when I'm far away on the pillow. What is it?
                                                                                                                                Heliotrope? No. Hyacinth? Hm. Roses, I think. She'd like scent of that
                                                                                                                                kind. Sweet and cheap: soon sour. Why Molly likes opoponax. Suits her,
                                                                                                                                with a little jessamine mixed. Her high notes and her low notes. At the
                                                                                                                                dance night she met him, dance of the hours. Heat brought it out. She was
                                                                                                                                wearing her black and it had the perfume of the time before. Good
                                                                                                                                conductor, is it? Or bad? Light too. Suppose there's some connection. For
                                                                                                                                instance if you go into a cellar where it's dark. Mysterious thing too. Why
                                                                                                                                did I smell it only now? Took its time in coming like herself, slow but sure.

                                                                                                                                Suppose it's ever so many millions of tiny grains blown across. Yes, it is.
                                                                                                                                Because those spice islands, Cinghalese this morning, smell them leagues
                                                                                                                                off.Tell you what it is.It's like a fine fine veil or web they have all over the
                                                                                                                                skin, fine like what do you call it gossamer, and they're always spinning it
                                                                                                                                out of them, fine as anything, like rainbow colours without knowing it.
                                                                                                                                Clings to everything she takes off. Vamp of her stockings. Warm shoe.
                                                                                                                                Stays. Drawers: little kick, taking them off. Byby till next time. Also the cat
                                                                                                                                likes to sniff in her shift on the bed. Know her smell in a thousand.
                                                                                                                                Bathwater too. Reminds me of strawberries and cream. Wonder where it is
                                                                                                                                really. There or the armpits or under the neck. Because you get it out of all
                                                                                                                                holes and corners. Hyacinth perfume made of oil of ether or something.
                                                                                                                                Muskrat. Bag under their tails. One grain pour off odour for years. Dogs at
                                                                                                                                each other behind. Good evening. Evening. How do you sniff? Hm. Hm.
                                                                                                                                Very well, thank you. Animals go by that. Yes now, look at it that way.
                                                                                                                                We're the same. Some women, instance, warn you off when they have their
                                                                                                                                period. Come near. Then get a hogo you could hang your hat on. Like
                                                                                                                                what? Potted herrings gone stale or. Boof! Please keep off the grass.

                                                                                                                                PARPerhaps they get a man smell off us. What though? Cigary gloves long
                                                                                                                                John had on his desk the other day. Breath? What you eat and drink gives
                                                                                                                                that. No. Mansmell, I mean. Must be connected with that because priests
                                                                                                                                that are supposed to be are different. Women buzz round it like flies round
                                                                                                                                treacle. Railed off the altar get on to it at any cost. The tree of forbidden
                                                                                                                                priest. O, father, will you? Let me be the first to. That diffuses itself all
                                                                                                                                through the body, permeates. Source of life. And it's extremely curious the
                                                                                                                                smell. Celery sauce. Let me.

                                                                                                                                PARMr Bloom inserted his nose. Hm. Into the. Hm. Opening of his
                                                                                                                                Almonds or. No. Lemons it is. Ah no, that's the soap.

                                                                                                                                PARO by the by that lotion. I knew there was something on my mind.
                                                                                                                                Never went back and the soap not paid. Dislike carrying bottles like that
                                                                                                                                hag this morning. Hynes might have paid me that three shillings. I could
                                                                                                                                mention Meagher's just to remind him. Still if he works that paragraph.
                                                                                                                                Two and nine. Bad opinion of me he'll have. Call tomorrow. How much do
                                                                                                                                I owe you? Three and nine? Two and nine, sir. Ah. Might stop him giving
                                                                                                                                credit another time. Lose your customers that way. Pubs do. Fellows run up
                                                                                                                                a bill on the slate and then slinking around the back streets into somewhere

                                                                                                                                PARHere's this nobleman passed before. Blown in from the bay. Just went
                                                                                                                                as far as turn back. Always at home at dinnertime. Looks mangled out: had
                                                                                                                                a good tuck in. Enjoying nature now. Grace after meals. After supper walk
                                                                                                                                a mile. Sure he has a small bank balance somewhere, government sit. Walk
                                                                                                                                after him now make him awkward like those newsboys me today. Still you
                                                                                                                                learn something. See ourselves as others see us. So long as women don't
                                                                                                                                mock what matter? That's the way to find out. Ask yourself who is he now.
                                                                                                                                The Mystery Man on the Beach, prize titbit story by Mr Leopold Bloom.

                                                                                                                                Payment at the rate of one guinea per column. And that fellow today at the
                                                                                                                                graveside in the brown macintosh. Corns on his kismet however. Healthy
                                                                                                                                perhaps absorb all the. Whistle brings rain they say. Must be some
                                                                                                                                somewhere. Salt in the Ormond damp. The body feels the atmosphere. Old
                                                                                                                                Betty's joints are on the rack. Mother Shipton's prophecy that is about
                                                                                                                                ships around they fly in the twinkling. No. Signs of rain it is. The royal
                                                                                                                                reader. And distant hills seem coming nigh.

                                                                                                                                PARHowth. Bailey light. Two, four, six, eight, nine. See. Has to change or
                                                                                                                                they might think it a house. Wreckers. Grace Darling. People afraid of the
                                                                                                                                dark. Also glowworms, cyclists: lightingup time. Jewels diamonds flash
                                                                                                                                better. Women. Light is a kind of reassuring. Not going to hurt you. Better
                                                                                                                                now of course than long ago. Country roads. Run you through the small
                                                                                                                                guts for nothing. Still two types there are you bob against. Scowl or smile.
                                                                                                                                Pardon! Not at all. Best time to spray plants too in the shade after the sun.
                                                                                                                                Some light still. Red rays are longest. Roygbiv Vance taught us: red,
                                                                                                                                orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet.A star I see. Venus? Can't tell yet.
                                                                                                                                Two. When three it's night. Were those nightclouds there all the time?
                                                                                                                                Looks like a phantom ship. No. Wait. Trees are they? An optical illusion.
                                                                                                                                Mirage. Land of the setting sun this. Homerule sun setting in the southeast.
                                                                                                                                My native land, goodnight.

                                                                                                                                PARDew falling. Bad for you, dear, to sit on that stone. Brings on white
                                                                                                                                fluxions. Never have little baby then less he was big strong fight his way up
                                                                                                                                through. Might get piles myself. Sticks too like a summer cold, sore on the
                                                                                                                                mouth. Cut with grass or paper worst. Friction of the position. Like to be
                                                                                                                                that rock she sat on. O sweet little, you don't know how nice you looked. I
                                                                                                                                begin to like them at that age. Green apples. Grab at all that offer. Suppose
                                                                                                                                it's the only time we cross legs, seated. Also the library today: those girl
                                                                                                                                graduates. Happy chairs under them. But it's the evening influence. They
                                                                                                                                feel all that. Open like flowers, know their hours, sunflowers, Jerusalem
                                                                                                                                artichokes, in ballrooms, chandeliers, avenues under the lamps. Nightstock
                                                                                                                                in Mat Dillon's garden where I kissed her shoulder. Wish I had a full length
                                                                                                                                oilpainting of her then. June that was too I wooed. The year returns.
                                                                                                                                History repeats itself. Ye crags and peaks I'm with you once again. Life,
                                                                                                                                love, voyage round your own little world. And now? Sad about her lame of
                                                                                                                                course but must be on your guard not to feel too much pity. They take

                                                                                                                                PARAll quiet on Howth now. The distant hills seem. Where we. The
                                                                                                                                rhododendrons. I am a fool perhaps. He gets the plums, and I the
                                                                                                                                plumstones. Where I come in. All that old hill has seen. Names change:
                                                                                                                                that's all. Lovers: yum yum.

                                                                                                                                PARTired I feel now. Will I get up? O wait. Drained all the manhood out
                                                                                                                                of me, little wretch. She kissed me. Never again. My youth. Only once it
                                                                                                                                comes. Or hers. Take the train there tomorrow. No. Returning not the
                                                                                                                                same. Like kids your second visit to a house. The new I want. Nothing new
                                                                                                                                under the sun. Care of P. O. Dolphin's Barn. Are you not happy in your?

                                                                                                                                Naughty darling. At Dolphin's barn charades in Luke Doyle's house. Mat
                                                                                                                                Dillon and his bevy of daughters: Tiny, Atty, Floey, Maimy, Louy, Hetty.
                                                                                                                                Molly too. Eightyseven that was. Year before we. And the old major, partial
                                                                                                                                to his drop of spirits. Curious she an only child, I an only child. So it
                                                                                                                                returns. Think you're escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is
                                                                                                                                the shortest way home. And just when he and she. Circus horse walking in
                                                                                                                                a ring. Rip van Winkle we played. Rip: tear in Henny Doyle's overcoat.
                                                                                                                                Van: breadvan delivering. Winkle: cockles and periwinkles. Then I did Rip
                                                                                                                                van Winkle coming back. She leaned on the sideboard watching. Moorish
                                                                                                                                eyes. Twenty years asleep in Sleepy Hollow. All changed. Forgotten. The
                                                                                                                                young are old. His gun rusty from the dew.

                                                                                                                                PARBa. What is that flying about? Swallow? Bat probably. Thinks I'm a
                                                                                                                                tree, so blind. Have birds no smell? Metempsychosis. They believed you
                                                                                                                                could be changed into a tree from grief. Weeping willow. Ba. There he goes.
                                                                                                                                Funny little beggar. Wonder where he lives. Belfry up there. Very likely.
                                                                                                                                Hanging by his heels in the odour of sanctity. Bell scared him out, I
                                                                                                                                suppose. Mass seems to be over. Could hear them all at it. Pray for us. And
                                                                                                                                pray for us. And pray for us. Good idea the repetition. Same thing with ads.
                                                                                                                                Buy from us. And buy from us. Yes, there's the light in the priest's house.
                                                                                                                                Their frugal meal. Remember about the mistake in the valuation when I
                                                                                                                                was in Thom's. Twentyeight it is. Two houses they have. Gabriel Conroy's
                                                                                                                                brother is curate. Ba. Again. Wonder why they come out at night like mice.
                                                                                                                                They're a mixed breed. Birds are like hopping mice. What frightens them,
                                                                                                                                light or noise? Better sit still. All instinct like the bird in drouth got water
                                                                                                                                out of the end of a jar by throwing in pebbles. Like a little man in a cloak he
                                                                                                                                is with tiny hands. Weeny bones. Almost see them shimmering, kind of a
                                                                                                                                bluey white. Colours depend on the light you see. Stare the sun for example
                                                                                                                                like the eagle then look at a shoe see a blotch blob yellowish. Wants to
                                                                                                                                stamp his trademark on everything. Instance, that cat this morning on the
                                                                                                                                staircase. Colour of brown turf. Say you never see them with three colours.
                                                                                                                                Not true. That half tabbywhite tortoiseshell in the City Arms with the letter
                                                                                                                                em on her forehead. Body fifty different colours. Howth a while ago
                                                                                                                                amethyst. Glass flashing. That's how that wise man what's his name with
                                                                                                                                the burning glass. Then the heather goes on fire. It can't be tourists'
                                                                                                                                matches. What? Perhaps the sticks dry rub together in the wind and light.
                                                                                                                                Or broken bottles in the furze act as a burning glass in the sun.
                                                                                                                                Archimedes. I have it! My memory's not so bad.

                                                                                                                                PARBa. Who knows what they're always flying for. Insects? That bee last
                                                                                                                                week got into the room playing with his shadow on the ceiling. Might be the
                                                                                                                                one bit me, come back to see. Birds too. Never find out. Or what they say.
                                                                                                                                Like our small talk. And says she and says he. Nerve they have to fly over
                                                                                                                                the ocean and back. Lots must be killed in storms, telegraph wires.
                                                                                                                                Dreadful life sailors have too. Big brutes of oceangoing steamers
                                                                                                                                floundering along in the dark, lowing out like seacows. Faugh a ballagh!
                                                                                                                                Out of that, bloody curse to you! Others in vessels, bit of a handkerchief

                                                                                                                                sail, pitched about like snuff at a wake when the stormy winds do blow.
                                                                                                                                Married too. Sometimes away for years at the ends of the earth somewhere.
                                                                                                                                No ends really because it's round. Wife in every port they say. She has a
                                                                                                                                good job if she minds it till Johnny comes marching home again. If ever he
                                                                                                                                does. Smelling the tail end of ports. How can they like the sea? Yet they do.
                                                                                                                                The anchor's weighed. Off he sails with a scapular or a medal on him for
                                                                                                                                luck. Well. And the tephilim no what's this they call it poor papa's father
                                                                                                                                had on his door to touch. That brought us out of the land of Egypt and into
                                                                                                                                the house of bondage. Something in all those superstitions because when
                                                                                                                                you go out never know what dangers. Hanging on to a plank or astride of a
                                                                                                                                beam for grim life, lifebelt round him, gulping salt water, and that's the last
                                                                                                                                of his nibs till the sharks catch hold of him. Do fish ever get seasick?

                                                                                                                                PARThen you have a beautiful calm without a cloud, smooth sea, placid,
                                                                                                                                crew and cargo in smithereens, Davy Jones' locker, moon looking down so
                                                                                                                                peaceful. Not my fault, old cockalorum.

                                                                                                                                PARA last lonely candle wandered up the sky from Mirus bazaar in search
                                                                                                                                of funds for Mercer's hospital and broke, drooping, and shed a cluster of
                                                                                                                                violet but one white stars. They floated, fell: they faded. The shepherd's
                                                                                                                                hour: the hour of folding: hour of tryst. From house to house, giving his
                                                                                                                                everwelcome double knock, went the nine o'clock postman, the
                                                                                                                                glowworm's lamp at his belt gleaming here and there through the laurel
                                                                                                                                hedges. And among the five young trees a hoisted lintstock lit the lamp at
                                                                                                                                Leahy's terrace. By screens of lighted windows, by equal gardens a shrill
                                                                                                                                voice went crying, wailing: Evening Telegraph, stop press edition! Result of
                                                                                                                                the Gold Cup races
                                                                                                                                ! and from the door of Dignam's house a boy ran out
                                                                                                                                and called. Twittering the bat flew here, flew there. Far out over the sands
                                                                                                                                the coming surf crept, grey. Howth settled for slumber, tired of long days,
                                                                                                                                of yumyum rhododendrons (he was old) and felt gladly the night breeze
                                                                                                                                lift, ruffle his fell of ferns. He lay but opened a red eye unsleeping, deep and
                                                                                                                                slowly breathing, slumberous but awake. And far on Kish bank the
                                                                                                                                anchored lightship twinkled, winked at Mr Bloom.

                                                                                                                                PARLife those chaps out there must have, stuck in the same spot. Irish
                                                                                                                                Lights board. Penance for their sins. Coastguards too. Rocket and breeches
                                                                                                                                buoy and lifeboat. Day we went out for the pleasure cruise in the Erin's
                                                                                                                                , throwing them the sack of old papers. Bears in the zoo. Filthy trip.
                                                                                                                                Drunkards out to shake up their livers. Puking overboard to feed the
                                                                                                                                herrings. Nausea. And the women, fear of God in their faces. Milly, no sign
                                                                                                                                of funk. Her blue scarf loose, laughing. Don't know what death is at that
                                                                                                                                age. And then their stomachs clean. But being lost they fear. When we hid
                                                                                                                                behind the tree at Crumlin. I didn't want to. Mamma! Mamma! Babes in
                                                                                                                                the wood. Frightening them with masks too. Throwing them up in the air to
                                                                                                                                catch them. I'll murder you. Is it only half fun? Or children playing battle.
                                                                                                                                Whole earnest. How can people aim guns at each other. Sometimes they go
                                                                                                                                off. Poor kids! Only troubles wildfire and nettlerash. Calomel purge I got
                                                                                                                                her for that. After getting better asleep with Molly. Very same teeth she has.

                                                                                                                                What do they love? Another themselves? But the morning she chased her
                                                                                                                                with the umbrella. Perhaps so as not to hurt. I felt her pulse. Ticking. Little
                                                                                                                                hand it was: now big. Dearest Papli. All that the hand says when you touch.
                                                                                                                                Loved to count my waistcoat buttons. Her first stays I remember. Made me
                                                                                                                                laugh to see. Little paps to begin with. Left one is more sensitive, I think.
                                                                                                                                Mine too. Nearer the heart? Padding themselves out if fat is in fashion. Her
                                                                                                                                growing pains at night, calling, wakening me. Frightened she was when her
                                                                                                                                nature came on her first. Poor child! Strange moment for the mother too.
                                                                                                                                Brings back her girlhood. Gibraltar. Looking from Buena Vista. O'Hara's
                                                                                                                                tower. The seabirds screaming. Old Barbary ape that gobbled all his family.
                                                                                                                                Sundown, gunfire for the men to cross the lines. Looking out over the sea
                                                                                                                                she told me. Evening like this, but clear, no clouds. I always thought I'd
                                                                                                                                marry a lord or a rich gentleman coming with a private yacht. Buenas
                                                                                                                                noches, senorita. El hombre ama la muchacha hermosa
                                                                                                                                . Why me? Because
                                                                                                                                you were so foreign from the others.

                                                                                                                                PARBetter not stick here all night like a limpet. This weather makes you
                                                                                                                                dull. Must be getting on for nine by the light. Go home. Too late for Leah.
                                                                                                                                Lily of Killarney
                                                                                                                                . No. Might be still up. Call to the hospital to see. Hope
                                                                                                                                she's over. Long day I've had. Martha, the bath, funeral, house of Keyes,
                                                                                                                                museum with those goddesses, Dedalus' song. Then that bawler in Barney
                                                                                                                                Kiernan's. Got my own back there. Drunken ranters what I said about his
                                                                                                                                God made him wince. Mistake to hit back. Or? No. Ought to go home and
                                                                                                                                laugh at themselves. Always want to be swilling in company. Afraid to be
                                                                                                                                alone like a child of two. Suppose he hit me. Look at it other way round.
                                                                                                                                Not so bad then. Perhaps not to hurt he meant. Three cheers for Israel.
                                                                                                                                Three cheers for the sister-in-law he hawked about, three fangs in her
                                                                                                                                mouth. Same style of beauty. Particularly nice old party for a cup of tea.
                                                                                                                                The sister of the wife of the wild man of Borneo has just come to town.
                                                                                                                                Imagine that in the early morning at close range. Everyone to his taste as
                                                                                                                                Morris said when he kissed the cow. But Dignam's put the boots on it.
                                                                                                                                Houses of mourning so depressing because you never know. Anyhow she
                                                                                                                                wants the money. Must call to those Scottish Widows as I promised.
                                                                                                                                Strange name. Takes it for granted we're going to pop off first. That widow
                                                                                                                                on Monday was it outside Cramer's that looked at me. Buried the poor
                                                                                                                                husband but progressing favourably on the premium. Her widow's mite.
                                                                                                                                Well? What do you expect her to do? Must wheedle her way along.
                                                                                                                                Widower I hate to see. Looks so forlorn. Poor man O'Connor wife and five
                                                                                                                                children poisoned by mussels here. The sewage. Hopeless. Some good
                                                                                                                                matronly woman in a porkpie hat to mother him. Take him in tow, platter
                                                                                                                                face and a large apron. Ladies' grey flannelette bloomers, three shillings a
                                                                                                                                pair, astonishing bargain. Plain and loved, loved for ever, they say. Ugly:
                                                                                                                                no woman thinks she is. Love, lie and be handsome for tomorrow we die.
                                                                                                                                See him sometimes walking about trying to find out who played the trick.
                                                                                                                                U. p: up. Fate that is. He, not me. Also a shop often noticed. Curse seems to
                                                                                                                                dog it. Dreamt last night? Wait. Something confused. She had red slippers  

                                                                                                                                on. Turkish. Wore the breeches. Suppose she does? Would I like her in
                                                                                                                                pyjamas? Damned hard to answer. Nannetti's gone. Mailboat. Near
                                                                                                                                Holyhead by now. Must nail that ad of Keyes's. Work Hynes and
                                                                                                                                Crawford. Petticoats for Molly. She has something to put in them. What's
                                                                                                                                that? Might be money.

                                                                                                                                PARMr Bloom stooped and turned over a piece of paper on the strand. He
                                                                                                                                brought it near his eyes and peered.
                                                                                                                                Letter? No. Can't read. Better go.
                                                                                                                                Better. I'm tired to move. Page of an old copybook. All those holes and
                                                                                                                                pebbles. Who could count them? Never know what you find. Bottle with
                                                                                                                                story of a treasure in it, thrown from a wreck. Parcels post. Children
                                                                                                                                always want to throw things in the sea. Trust? Bread cast on the waters.
                                                                                                                                What's this? Bit of stick.

                                                                                                                                PARO! Exhausted that female has me. Not so young now. Will she come
                                                                                                                                here tomorrow? Wait for her somewhere for ever. Must come back.
                                                                                                                                Murderers do. Will I?

                                                                                                                                PARMr Bloom with his stick gently vexed the thick sand at his foot. Write
                                                                                                                                a message for her. Might remain. What?


                                                                                                                                PARSome flatfoot tramp on it in the morning. Useless. Washed away. Tide
                                                                                                                                comes here. Saw a pool near her foot. Bend, see my face there, dark mirror,
                                                                                                                                breathe on it, stirs. All these rocks with lines and scars and letters. O, those
                                                                                                                                transparent! Besides they don't know. What is the meaning of that other
                                                                                                                                world. I called you naughty boy because I do not like.

                                                                                                                                PARAM. A.

                                                                                                                                PARNo room. Let it go.

                                                                                                                                PARMr Bloom effaced the letters with his slow boot. Hopeless thing sand.
                                                                                                                                Nothing grows in it. All fades. No fear of big vessels coming up here.
                                                                                                                                Except Guinness's barges. Round the Kish in eighty days. Done half by

                                                                                                                                PARHe flung his wooden pen away. The stick fell in silted sand, stuck.
                                                                                                                                Now if you were trying to do that for a week on end you couldn't. Chance.
                                                                                                                                We'll never meet again. But it was lovely. Goodbye, dear. Thanks. Made me
                                                                                                                                feel so young.

                                                                                                                                PARShort snooze now if I had. Must be near nine. Liverpool boat long
                                                                                                                                gone.. Not even the smoke. And she can do the other. Did too. And Belfast.
                                                                                                                                I won't go. Race there, race back to Ennis. Let him. Just close my eyes a
                                                                                                                                moment. Won't sleep, though. Half dream. It never comes the same. Bat
                                                                                                                                again. No harm in him. Just a few.

                                                                                                                                PARO sweety all your little girlwhite up I saw dirty bracegirdle made me
                                                                                                                                do love sticky we two naughty Grace darling she him half past the bed met
                                                                                                                                him pike hoses frillies for Raoul de perfume your wife black hair heave
                                                                                                                                under embon senorita young eyes Mulvey plump bubs me breadvan Winkle
                                                                                                                                red slippers she rusty sleep wander years of dreams return tail end
                                                                                                                                Agendath swoony lovey showed me her next year in drawers return next in
                                                                                                                                her next her next.

                                                                                                                                PARA bat flew. Here. There. Here. Far in the grey a bell chimed. Mr
                                                                                                                                Bloom with open mouth, his left boot sanded sideways, leaned, breathed.
                                                                                                                                Just for a few

                                                                                                                                PAR Cuckoo

                                                                                                                                PAR Cuckoo

                                                                                                                                PAR Cuckoo.

                                                                                                                                PARThe clock on the mantelpiece in the priest's house cooed where Canon
                                                                                                                                O'Hanlon and Father Conroy and the reverend John Hughes S. J. were
                                                                                                                                taking tea and sodabread and butter and fried mutton chops with catsup
                                                                                                                                and talking about

                                                                                                                                PAR Cuckoo

                                                                                                                                PAR Cuckoo

                                                                                                                                PAR Cuckoo

                                                                                                                                because it was a little canarybird that came out of its little house to tell the
                                                                                                                                time that Gerty MacDowell noticed the time she was there because she was
                                                                                                                                as quick as anything about a thing like that, was Gerty MacDowell, and she
                                                                                                                                noticed at once that that foreign gentleman that was sitting on the rocks
                                                                                                                                looking was

                                                                                                                                PAR Cuckoo

                                                                                                                                PAR Cuckoo

                                                                                                                                PAR Cuckoo.