of purple tabinet, with little foxes' heads upon it, lined with brown satin and having
round mulberry buttons. It was strange that his mother had had no musical talent,
though Aunt Kate used to call her the brains carrier of the Morkan family. Both she
and Julia had always seemed a little proud of their serious and matronly sister. Her
photograph stood before the pier-glass. She had an open book on her knees and was
pointing out something in it to Constantine who, dressed in a man-o'-war suit, lay at
her feet. It was she who had chosen the names of her sons, for she was very sensible
of the dignity of family life. Thanks to her, Constantine was now senior curate in
Balbriggan and, thanks to her, Gabriel himself had taken his degree in the Royal
University. A shadow passed over his face as he remembered her sullen opposition to
his marriage. Some slighting phrases she had used still rankled in his memory; once
she had spoken of Gretta as being country cute and that was not true of Gretta at all. It
was Gretta who had nursed her during all her last long illness in their house at
Monkstown.
He knew that Mary Jane must be near the end of her piece, for she was playing again
the opening melody with runs of scales after every bar, and while he waited for the
end the resentment died down in his heart. The piece ended with a trill of octaves in
the treble and a final deep octave in the bass. Great applause greeted Mary Jane as,
blushing and rolling up her music nervously, she escaped from the room. The most
vigorous clapping came from the four young men in the doorway who had gone away
to the refreshment-room at the beginning of the piece but had come back when the
piano had stopped.
Lancers were arranged. Gabriel found himself partnered with Miss Ivors. She was a
frank-mannered, talkative young lady, with a freckled face and prominent brown
eyes. She did not wear a low-cut bodice, and the large brooch which was fixed in the
front of her collar bore on it an Irish device and motto.
When they had taken their places she said abruptly:
`I have a crow to pluck with you.'
`With me?' said Gabriel.
She nodded her head gravely.
`What is it?' asked Gabriel, smiling at her solemn manner.
`Who is G.C.?' answered Miss Ivors, turning her eyes upon him.
Gabriel coloured and was about to knit his brows, as if he did not understand, when
she said bluntly:
`O, innocent Amy! I have found out that you write for The Daily Express. Now, aren't
you ashamed of yourself?'
`Why should I be ashamed of myself?' asked Gabriel, blinking his eyes and trying to
smile.
`Well, I'm ashamed of you,' said Miss Ivors frankly. `To say you'd write for a paper
like that. I didn't think you were a West Briton.'
A look of perplexity appeared on Gabriel's face. It was true that he wrote a literary
column every Wednesday in The Daily Express, for which he was paid fifteen
shillings. But that did not make him a West Briton surely. The books he received for
review were almost more welcome than the paltry cheque. He loved to feel the covers
and turn over the pages of newly printed books. Nearly every day when his teaching
in the college was ended he used to wander down the quays to the second-hand
booksellers, to Hickey's on Bachelor's Walk, to Webb's or Massey's on Aston's Quay,
or to O'Clohissey's in the by-street. He did not know how to meet her charge. He
wanted to say that literature was above politics. But they were friends of many years'
standing and their careers had been parallel, first at the University and then as
teachers: he could not risk a grandiose phrase with her. He continued blinking his
eyes and trying to smile and murmured lamely that he saw nothing political in writing
reviews of books.
When their turn to cross had come he was still perplexed and inattentive. Miss Ivors
promptly took his hand in a warm grasp and said in a soft friendly tone:
`Of course, I was only joking. Come, we cross now.'
When they were together again she spoke of the University question and Gabriel felt
more at ease. A friend of hers had shown her his review of Browning's poems. That
was how she had found out the secret: but she liked the review immensely.
Then she said suddenly:
`O, Mr Conroy, will you come for an excursion to the Aran Isles this summer? We're
going to stay there a whole month. It will be splendid out in the Atlantic. You ought
to come. Mr Clancy is coming, and Mr Kilkelly and Kathleen Kearney. It would be
splendid for Gretta too if she'd come. She's from Connacht, isn't she?'
`Her people are,' said Gabriel shortly.
`But you will come, won't you?' said Miss Ivors, laying her warm hand eagerly on his
arm.
`The fact is,' said Gabriel, `I have just arranged to go--'
`Go where?' asked Miss Ivors.
`Well, you know, every year I go for a cycling tour with some fellows and so--'
`But where?' asked Miss Ivors.
`Well, we usually go to France or Belgium or perhaps Germany,' said Gabriel
awkwardly.
`And why do you go to France and Belgium,' said Miss Ivors, `instead of visiting your
own land?'
`Well,' said Gabriel, `it's partly to keep in touch with the languages and partly for a
change.'
`And haven't you your own language to keep in touch with - Irish?' asked Miss Ivors.
`Well,' said Gabriel, `if it comes to that, you know, Irish is not my language.'
Their neighbours had turned to listen to the cross-examination. Gabriel glanced right
and left nervously and tried to keep his good humour under the ordeal, which was
making a blush invade his forehead.
`And haven't you your own land to visit,' continued Miss Ivors, `that you know
nothing of, your own people, and your own country?'
`O, to tell you the truth,' retorted Gabriel suddenly, `I'm sick of my own country, sick
of it!'
`Why?' asked Miss Ivors.
Gabriel did not answer, for his retort had heated him.
`Why?' repeated Miss Ivors.
They had to go visiting together and, as he had not answered her, Miss Ivors said
warmly:
`Of course, you've no answer.'
Gabriel tried to cover his agitation by taking part in the dance with great energy. He
avoided her eyes, for he had seen a sour expression on her face. But when they met in
the long chain he was surprised to feel his hand firmly pressed. She looked at him
from under her brows for a moment quizzically until he smiled. Then, just as the
chain was about to start again, she stood on tiptoe and whispered into his ear:
`West Briton!'
When the lancers were over Gabriel went away to a remote corner of the room where
Freddy Malins' mother was sitting. She was a stout, feeble old woman with white
hair. Her voice had a catch in it like her son's and she stuttered slightly. She had been
told that Freddy had come and that he was nearly all right. Gabriel asked her whether
she had had a good crossing. She lived with her married daughter in Glasgow and
came to Dublin on a visit once a year. She answered placidly that she had had a
beautiful crossing and that the captain had been most attentive to her. She spoke also
of the beautiful house her daughter kept in Glasgow, and of all the friends they had
there. While her tongue rambled on Gabriel tried to banish from his mind all memory
of the unpleasant incident with Miss Ivors. Of course the girl, or woman, or whatever
she was, was an enthusiast, but there was a time for all things. Perhaps he ought not to
have answered her like that. But she had no right to call him a West Briton before
people, even in joke. She had tried to make him ridiculous before people, heckling
him and staring at him with her rabbit's eyes.
He saw his wife making her way towards him through the waltzing couples. When
she reached him she said into his ear:
`Gabriel, Aunt Kate wants to know won't you carve the goose as usual. Miss Daly
will carve the ham and I'll do the pudding.'
`All right,' said Gabriel.
`She's sending in the younger ones first as soon as this waltz is over so that we'll have
the table to ourselves.'
`Were you dancing?' asked Gabriel.
`Of course I was. Didn't you see me? What row had you with Molly Ivors?'
`No row. Why? Did she say so?'
`Something like that. I'm trying to get that Mr D'Arcy to sing. He's full of conceit, I
think.'
`There was no row,' said Gabriel moodily, `only she wanted me to go for a trip to the
west of Ireland and I said I wouldn't.'
His wife clasped her hands excitedly and gave a little jump.
`O, do go, Gabriel,' she cried. `I'd love to see Galway again.'
`You can go if you like,' said Gabriel coldly.
She looked at him for a moment, then turned to Mrs Malins and said:
`There's a nice husband for you, Mrs Malins.'
While she was threading her way back across the room Mrs Malins, without adverting
to the interruption, went on to tell Gabriel what beautiful places there were in
Scotland and beautiful scenery. Her son-in-law brought them every year to the lakes
and they used to go fishing. Her son-in-law was a splendid fisher. One day he caught
a beautiful big fish and the man in the hotel cooked it for their dinner.
Gabriel hardly heard what she said. Now that supper was coming near he began to
think again about his speech and about the quotation. When he saw Freddy Malins
coming across the room to visit his mother Gabriel left the chair free for him and
retired into the embrasure of the window. The room had already cleared and from the
back room came the clatter of plates and knives. Those who still remained in the
drawing-room seemed tired of dancing and were conversing quietly in little groups.
Gabriel's warm, trembling fingers tapped the cold pane of the window. How cool it
must be outside! How pleasant it would be to walk out alone, first along by the river
and then through the park! The snow would be lying on the branches of the trees and
forming a bright cap on the top of the Wellington Monument. How much more
pleasant it would be there than at the supper-table!
He ran over the headings of his speech: Irish hospitality, sad memories, the Three
Graces, Paris, the quotation from Browning. He repeated to himself a phrase he had
written in his review: `One feels that one is listening to a thought-tormented music.'
Miss Ivors had praised the review. Was she sincere? Had she really any life of her
own behind all her propagandism? There had never been any ill-feeling between them
until that night. It unnerved him to think that she would be at the supper-table, looking
up at him, while he spoke, with her critical quizzing eyes. Perhaps she would not be
sorry to see him fail in his speech. An idea came into his mind and gave him courage.
He would say, alluding to Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia: `Ladies and Gentlemen, the
generation which is now on the wane among us may have had its faults, but for my
part I think it had certain qualities of hospitality, of humour, of humanity, which the
new and very serious and hyper-educated generation that is growing up around us
seems to me to lack.' Very good: that was one for Miss Ivors. What did he care that
his aunts were only two ignorant old women?
A murmur in the room attracted his attention. Mr Browne was advancing from the
door, gallantly escorting Aunt Julia, who leaned upon his arm, smiling and hanging
her head. An irregular musketry of applause escorted her also as far as the piano and
then, as Mary Jane seated herself on the stool, and Aunt Julia, no longer smiling, half
turned so as to pitch her voice fairly into the room, gradually ceased. Gabriel
recognized the prelude. It was that of an old song of Aunt Julia's - `Arrayed for the
Bridal'. Her voice, strong and clear in tone, attacked with great spirit the runs which
embellish the air, and though she sang very rapidly she did not miss even the smallest
of the grace notes. To follow the voice, without looking at the singer's face, was to
feel and share the excitement of swift and secure flight. Gabriel applauded loudly
with all the others at the close of the song, and loud applause was borne in from the
invisible supper-table. It sounded so genuine that a little colour struggled into Aunt
Julia's face as she bent to replace in the music-stand the old leather-bound song-book
that had her initials on the cover. Freddy Malins, who had listened with his head
perched sideways to hear her better, was still applauding when everyone else had
ceased and talking animatedly to his mother, who nodded her head gravely and slowly
in acquiescence. At last, when he could clap no more, he stood up suddenly and
hurried across the room to Aunt Julia whose hand he seized and held in both his
hands, shaking it when words failed him or the catch in his voice proved too much for
him.
`I was just telling my mother,' he said, `I never heard you sing so well, never. No, I
never heard your voice so good as it is tonight. Now! Would you believe that now?
That's the truth. Upon my word and honour that's the truth. I never heard your voice
sound so fresh and so... so clear and fresh, never.'
Aunt Julia smiled broadly and murmured something about compliments as she
released her hand from his grasp. Mr Browne extended his open hand towards her and
said to those who were near him in the manner of a showman introducing a prodigy to
an audience:
`Miss Julia Morkan, my latest discovery!'
He was laughing very heartily at this himself when Freddy Malins turned to him and
said:
`Well, Browne, if you're serious you might make a worse discovery. All I can say is I
never heard her sing half so well as long as I am coming here. And that's the honest
truth.'
`Neither did I,' said Mr Browne. `I think her voice has greatly improved.'
Aunt Julia shrugged her shoulders and said with meek pride:
`Thirty years ago I hadn't a bad voice as voices go.'
`I often told Julia,' said Aunt Kate emphatically, `that she was simply thrown away in
