The Dead 

                                     James Joyce 

LILY, the caretaker's daughter, was literally run off her feet. Hardly had she brought 
one gentleman into the little pantry behind the office on the ground floor and helped 
him off with his overcoat than the wheezy hall-door bell clanged again and she had to 
scamper along the bare hallway to let in another guest. It was well for her she had not 
to attend to the ladies also. But Miss Kate and Miss Julia had thought of that and had 
converted the bathroom upstairs into a ladies' dressing-room. Miss Kate and Miss Julia 
were there, gossiping and laughing and fussing, walking after each other to the head of 
the stairs, peering down over the banisters and calling down to Lily to ask her who had 
come.

It was always a great affair, the Misses Morkan's annual dance. Everybody who knew them 
came to it, members of the family, old friends of the family, the members of Julia's 
choir, any of Kate's pupils that were grown up enough, and even some of Mary Jane's 
pupils too. Never once had it fallen flat. For years and years it had gone off in 
splendid style, as long as anyone could remember; ever since Kate and Julia, after the 
death of their brother Pat, had left the house in Stoney Batter and taken Mary Jane, 
their only niece, to live with them in the dark, gaunt house on Usher's Island, the 
upper part of which they had rented from Mr. Fulham, the corn-factor on the ground floor. 
That was a good thirty years ago if it was a day. Mary Jane, who was then a little girl 
in short clothes, was now the main prop of the household, for she had the organ in 
Haddington Road. She had been through the Academy and gave a pupils' concert every year 
in the upper room of the Antient Concert Rooms. Many of her pupils belonged to the 
better-class families on the Kingstown and Dalkey line. Old as they were, her aunts also 
did their share. Julia, though she was quite grey, was still the leading soprano in Adam 
and Eve's, and Kate, being too feeble to go about much, gave music lessons to beginners 
on the old square piano in the back room. Lily, the caretaker's daughter, did housemaid's 
work for them. Though their life was modest, they believed in eating well; the best of 
everything: diamond-bone sirloins, three-shilling tea and the best bottled stout. But 
Lily seldom made a mistake in the orders, so that she got on well with her three 
mistresses. They were fussy, that was all. But the only thing they would not stand was 
back answers.

Of course, they had good reason to be fussy on such a night. And then it was long after 
ten o'clock and yet there was no sign of Gabriel and his wife. Besides they were 
dreadfully afraid that Freddy Malins might turn up screwed. They would not wish for 
worlds that any of Mary Jane's pupils should see him under the influence; and when he was 
like that it was sometimes very hard to manage him. Freddy Malins always came late, but 
they wondered what could be keeping Gabriel: and that was what brought them every two 
minutes to the banisters to ask Lily had Gabriel or Freddy come.

"O, Mr. Conroy," said Lily to Gabriel when she opened the door for him, "Miss Kate and 
Miss Julia thought you were never coming. Good-night, Mrs. Conroy."

"I'll engage they did," said Gabriel, "but they forget that my wife here takes three 
mortal hours to dress herself."

He stood on the mat, scraping the snow from his goloshes, while Lily led his wife to the 
foot of the stairs and called out:

"Miss Kate, here's Mrs. Conroy."

Kate and Julia came toddling down the dark stairs at once. Both of them kissed Gabriel's 
wife, said she must be perished alive, and asked was Gabriel with her.

"Here I am as right as the mail, Aunt Kate! Go on up. I'll follow," called out Gabriel 
from the dark.

He continued scraping his feet vigorously while the three women went upstairs, laughing, 
to the ladies' dressing-room. A light fringe of snow lay like a cape on the shoulders of 
his overcoat and like toecaps on the toes of his goloshes; and, as the buttons of his 
overcoat slipped with a squeaking noise through the snow-stiffened frieze, a cold, 
fragrant air from out-of-doors escaped from crevices and folds.

"Is it snowing again, Mr. Conroy?" asked Lily.

She had preceded him into the pantry to help him off with his overcoat. Gabriel smiled at 
the three syllables she had given his surname and glanced at her. She was a slim; growing 
girl, pale in complexion and with hay-coloured hair. The gas in the pantry made her look 
still paler. Gabriel had known her when she was a child and used to sit on the lowest 
step  nursing a rag doll.

"Yes, Lily," he answered, "and I think we're in for a night of it."

He looked up at the pantry ceiling, which was shaking with the stamping and shuffling of 
feet on the floor above, listened for a moment to the piano and then glanced at the girl, 
who was folding his overcoat carefully at the end of a shelf.

"Tell me. Lily," he said in a friendly tone, "do you still go to school?"

"O no, sir," she answered. "I'm done schooling this year and more."

"O, then," said Gabriel gaily, "I suppose we'll be going to your wedding one of these 
fine days with your young man, eh? "

The girl glanced back at him over her shoulder and said with great bitterness:

"The men that is now is only all palaver and what they can get out of you."

Gabriel coloured, as if he felt he had made a mistake and, without looking at her, kicked 
off his goloshes and flicked actively with his muffler at his patent-leather shoes.

He was a stout, tallish young man. The high colour of his cheeks pushed upwards even to 
his forehead, where it scattered itself in a few formless patches of pale red; and on his 
hairless face there scintillated restlessly the polished lenses and the bright gilt rims 
of the glasses which screened his delicate and restless eyes. His glossy black hair was 
parted in the middle and brushed in a long curve behind his ears where it curled slightly 
beneath the groove left by his hat.

When he had flicked lustre into his shoes he stood up and pulled his waistcoat down more 
tightly on his plump body. Then he took a coin rapidly from his pocket.

"O Lily," he said, thrusting it into her hands, "it's Christmastime, isn't it? Just... 
here's a little...."

He walked rapidly towards the door.

"O no, sir!" cried the girl, following him. "Really, sir, I wouldn't take it."

"Christmas-time! Christmas-time!" said Gabriel, almost trotting to the stairs and waving 
his hand to her in deprecation.

The girl, seeing that he had gained the stairs, called out after him:

"Well, thank you, sir."

He waited outside the drawing-room door until the waltz should finish, listening to the 
skirts that swept against it and to the shuffling of feet. He was still discomposed by 
the girl's bitter and sudden retort. It had cast a gloom over him which he tried to 
dispel by arranging his cuffs and the bows of his tie. He then took from his waistcoat 
pocket a little paper and glanced at the headings he had made for his speech. He was 
undecided about the lines from Robert Browning, for he feared they would be above the 
heads of his hearers. Some quotation that they would recognise from Shakespeare or from 
the Melodies would be better. The indelicate clacking of the men's heels and the 
shuffling of their soles reminded him that their grade of culture differed from his. He 
would only make himself ridiculous by quoting poetry to them which they could not 
understand. They would think that he was airing his superior education. He would fail 
with them just as he had failed with the girl in the pantry. He had taken up a wrong 
tone. His whole speech was a mistake from first to last, an utter failure.

Just then his aunts and his wife came out of the ladies' dressing-room. His aunts were 
two small, plainly dressed old women. Aunt Julia was an inch or so the taller. Her hair, 
drawn low over the tops of her ears, was grey; and grey also, with darker shadows, was 
her large flaccid face. Though she was stout in build and stood erect, her slow eyes and 
parted lips gave her the appearance of a woman who did not know where she was or where 
she was going. Aunt Kate was more vivacious. Her face, healthier than her sister's, was 
all puckers and creases, like a shrivelled red apple, and her hair, braided in the same 
old-fashioned way, had not lost its ripe nut colour.

They both kissed Gabriel frankly. He was their favourite nephew the son of their dead 
elder sister, Ellen, who had married T. J. Conroy of the Port and Docks.

"Gretta tells me you're not going to take a cab back to Monkstown tonight, Gabriel," said 
Aunt Kate.

"No," said Gabriel, turning to his wife, "we had quite enough of that last year, hadn't 
we? Don't you remember, Aunt Kate, what a cold Gretta got out of it? Cab windows rattling 
all the way, and the east wind blowing in after we passed Merrion. Very jolly it was. 
Gretta caught a dreadful cold."

Aunt Kate frowned severely and nodded her head at every word.

"Quite right, Gabriel, quite right," she said. "You can't be too careful."

"But as for Gretta there," said Gabriel, "she'd walk home in the snow if she were let." 

Mrs. Conroy laughed.

"Don't mind him, Aunt Kate," she said. "He's really an awful bother, what with green 
shades for Tom's eyes at night and making him do the dumb-bells, and forcing Eva to eat 
the stirabout. The poor child! And she simply hates the sight of it!... O, but you'll 
never guess what he makes me wear now!"

She broke out into a peal of laughter and glanced at her husband, whose admiring and 
happy eyes had been wandering from her dress to her face and hair. The two aunts laughed 
heartily, too, for Gabriel's solicitude was a standing joke with them.

"Goloshes!" said Mrs. Conroy. "That's the latest. Whenever it's wet underfoot I must put 
on my galoshes. Tonight even, he wanted me to put them on, but I wouldn't. The next thing 
he'll buy me will be a diving suit."

Gabriel laughed nervously and patted his tie reassuringly, while Aunt Kate nearly doubled 
herself, so heartily did she enjoy the joke. The smile soon faded from Aunt Julia's face 
and her mirthless eyes were directed towards her nephew's face. After a pause she asked:

"And what are goloshes, Gabriel?"

"Goloshes, Julia!" exclaimed her sister "Goodness me, don't you know what goloshes are? 
You wear them over your... over your boots, Gretta, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Conroy. "Guttapercha things. We both have a pair now. Gabriel says 
everyone wears them on the Continent."

"O, on the Continent," murmured Aunt Julia, nodding her head slowly.

Gabriel knitted his brows and said, as if he were slightly angered:

"It's nothing very wonderful, but Gretta thinks it very funny because she says the word 
reminds her of Christy Minstrels."

"But tell me, Gabriel," said Aunt Kate, with brisk tact. "Of course, you've seen about 
the room. Gretta was saying..."

"0, the room is all right," replied Gabriel. "I've taken one in the Gresham."

"To be sure," said Aunt Kate, "by far the best thing to do. And the children, Gretta, you're not anxious about them?"

"0, for one night," said Mrs. Conroy. "Besides, Bessie will look after them."

"To be sure," said Aunt Kate again. "What a comfort it is to have a girl like that, one you can depend on! There's that Lily, I'm sure I don't know what has come over her 
lately. She's not the girl she was at all."

Gabriel was about to ask his aunt some questions on this point, but she broke off 
suddenly to gaze after her sister, who had wandered down the stairs and was craning her 
neck over the banisters.

"Now, I ask you," she said almost testily, "where is Julia going? Julia! Julia! Where 
are you going?"

Julia, who had gone half way down one flight, came back and announced blandly:

"Here's Freddy."

At the same moment a clapping of hands and a final flourish of the pianist told that the 
waltz had ended. The drawing-room door was opened from within and some couples came out. 
Aunt Kate drew Gabriel aside hurriedly and whispered into his ear:

"Slip down, Gabriel, like a good fellow and see if he's all right, and don't let him up 
if he's screwed. I'm sure he's screwed. I'm sure he is."

Gabriel went to the stairs and listened over the banisters. He could hear two persons 
talking in the pantry. Then he recognised Freddy Malins' laugh. He went down the stairs 
noisily.

"It's such a relief," said Aunt Kate to Mrs. Conroy, "that Gabriel is here. I always feel 
easier in my mind when he's here.... Julia, there's Miss Daly and Miss Power will take 
some refreshment. Thanks for your beautiful waltz, Miss Daly. It made lovely time."

A tall wizen-faced man, with a stiff grizzled moustache and swarthy skin, who was passing 
out with his partner, said:

"And may we have some refreshment, too, Miss Morkan?"

"Julia," said Aunt Kate summarily, "and here's Mr. Browne and Miss Furlong. Take them in, 
Julia, with Miss Daly and Miss Power."

"I'm the man for the ladies," said Mr. Browne, pursing his lips until his moustache 
bristled and smiling in all his wrinkles. "You know, Miss Morkan, the reason they are so 
fond of me is----"

He did not finish his sentence, but, seeing that Aunt Kate was out of earshot, at once 
led the three young ladies into the back room. The middle of the room was occupied by 
two square tables placed end to end, and on these Aunt Julia and the caretaker were 
straightening and smoothing a large cloth. On the sideboard were arrayed dishes and 
plates, and glasses and bundles of knives and forks and spoons. The top of the closed 
square piano served also as a sideboard for viands and sweets. At a smaller sideboard in 
one corner two young men were standing, drinking hop-bitters.

Mr. Browne led his charges thither and invited them all, in jest, to some ladies' punch, 
hot, strong and sweet. As they said they never took anything strong, he opened three 
bottles of lemonade for them. Then he asked one of the young men to move aside, and, 
taking hold of the decanter, filled out for himself a goodly measure of whisky. The young 
men eyed him respectfully while he took a trial sip.

"God help me," he said, smiling, "it's the doctor's orders."

His wizened face broke into a broader smile, and the three young ladies laughed in 
musical echo to his pleasantry, swaying their bodies to and fro, with nervous jerks of 
their shoulders. The boldest said:

"O, now, Mr. Browne, I'm sure the doctor never ordered anything of the kind."

Mr. Browne took another sip of his whisky and said, with sidling mimicry:

"Well, you see, I'm like the famous Mrs. Cassidy, who is reported to have said: 'Now, 
Mary Grimes, if I don't take it, make me take it, for I feel I want it.'"

His hot face had leaned forward a little too confidentially and he had assumed a very low 
Dublin accent so that the young ladies, with one instinct, received his speech in 
silence. Miss Furlong, who was one of Mary Jane's pupils, asked Miss Daly what was the 
name of the pretty waltz she had played; and Mr. Browne, seeing that he was ignored, 
turned promptly to the two young men who were more appreciative.

A red-faced young woman, dressed in pansy, came into the room, excitedly clapping her 
hands and crying:

"Quadrilles! Quadrilles!"

Close on her heels came Aunt Kate, crying:

"Two gentlemen and three ladies, Mary Jane!"

"O, here's Mr. Bergin and Mr. Kerrigan," said Mary Jane. "Mr. Kerrigan, will you take 
Miss Power? Miss Furlong, may I get you a partner, Mr. Bergin. O, that'll just do now."

"Three ladies, Mary Jane," said Aunt Kate.

The two young gentlemen asked the ladies if they might have the pleasure, and Mary Jane 
turned to Miss Daly.

"O, Miss Daly, you're really awfully good, after playing for the last two dances, but 
really we're so short of ladies tonight."

"I don't mind in the least, Miss Morkan."

"But I've a nice partner for you, Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, the tenor. I'll get him to sing 
later on. All Dublin is raving about him."

"Lovely voice, lovely voice!" said Aunt Kate.

As the piano had twice begun the prelude to the first figure Mary Jane led her recruits 
quickly from the room. They had hardly gone when Aunt Julia wandered slowly into the 
room, looking behind her at something.

"What is the matter, Julia?" asked Aunt Kate anxiously. "Who is it?"

Julia, who was carrying in a column of table-napkins, turned to her sister and said, 
simply, as if the question had surprised her:

"It's only Freddy, Kate, and Gabriel with him."

In fact right behind her Gabriel could be seen piloting Freddy Malins across the landing. 
The latter, a young man of about forty, was of Gabriel's size and build, with very round 
shoulders. His face was fleshy and pallid, touched with colour only at the thick hanging 
lobes of his ears and at the wide wings of his nose. He had coarse features, a blunt nose, 
a convex and receding brow, tumid and protruded lips. His heavy-lidded eyes and the 
disorder of his scanty hair made him look sleepy. He was laughing heartily in a high key 
at a story which he had been telling Gabriel on the stairs and at the same time rubbing 
the knuckles of his left fist backwards and forwards into his left eye.

"Good-evening, Freddy," said Aunt Julia.

Freddy Malins bade the Misses Morkan good-evening in what seemed an offhand fashion by 
reason of the habitual catch in his voice and then, seeing that Mr. Browne was grinning 
at him from the sideboard, crossed the room on rather shaky legs and began to repeat in 
an undertone the story he had just told to Gabriel.

"He's not so bad, is he?" said Aunt Kate to Gabriel.

Gabriel's brows were dark but he raised them quickly and answered:

"O, no, hardly noticeable."

"Now, isn't he a terrible fellow!" she said. "And his poor mother made him take the 
pledge on New Year's Eve. But come on, Gabriel, into the drawing-room."

Before leaving the room with Gabriel she signalled to Mr. Browne by frowning and shaking 
her forefinger in warning to and fro. Mr. Browne nodded in answer and, when she had gone, 
said to Freddy Malins:

"Now, then, Teddy, I'm going to fill you out a good glass of lemonade just to buck you 
up."

Freddy Malins, who was nearing the climax of his story, waved the offer aside impatiently 
but Mr. Browne, having first called Freddy Malins' attention to a disarray in his dress, 
filled out and handed him a full glass of lemonade. Freddy Malins' left hand accepted the 
glass mechanically, his right hand being engaged in the mechanical readjustment of his 
dress. Mr. Browne, whose face was once more wrinkling with mirth, poured out for himself 
a glass of whisky while Freddy Malins exploded, before he had well reached the climax of 
his story, in a kink of high-pitched bronchitic laughter and, setting down his untasted 
and overflowing glass, began to rub the knuckles of his left fist backwards and forwards 
into his left eye, repeating words of his last phrase as well as his fit of laughter 
would allow him.

Gabriel could not listen while Mary Jane was playing her Academy piece, full of runs and 
difficult passages, to the hushed drawing-room. He liked music but the piece she was 
playing had no melody for him and he doubted whether it had any melody for the other 
listeners, though they had begged Mary Jane to play something. Four young men, who had 
come from the refreshment-room to stand in the doorway at the sound of the piano, had 
gone away quietly in couples after a few minutes. The only persons who seemed to follow 
the music were Mary Jane herself, her hands racing along the key-board or lifted from it 
at the pauses like those of a priestess in momentary imprecation, and Aunt Kate standing 
at her elbow to turn the page.

Gabriel's eyes, irritated by the floor, which glittered with beeswax under the heavy 
chandelier, wandered to the wall above the piano. A picture of the balcony scene in Romeo 
and Juliet hung there and beside it was a picture of the two murdered princes in the 
Tower which Aunt Julia had worked in red, blue and brown wools when she was a girl. 
Probably in the school they had gone to as girls that kind of work had been taught for 
one year. His mother had worked for him as a birthday present a waistcoat 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 pierglass. She held 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 name of her sons for she was very sensible of the dignity of family life. 
Thanks to her, Constantine was now senior curate in Balbrigan 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; she had once 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 Web's or Massey's on Aston's Quay, or to O'Clohissey's in the bystreet. 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 arm 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?"

"0, 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 
hypereducated 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 recognised 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 songbook 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 
that choir. But she never would be said by me."

She turned as if to appeal to the good sense of the others against a refractory child 
while Aunt Julia gazed in front of her, a vague smile of reminiscence playing on her face.

"No," continued Aunt Kate, "she wouldn't be said or led by anyone, slaving there in that 
choir night and day, night and day. Six o'clock on Christmas morning! And all for what?"

"Well, isn't it for the honour of God, Aunt Kate?" asked Mary Jane, twisting round on the 
piano-stool and smiling.

Aunt Kate turned fiercely on her niece and said:

"I know all about the honour of God, Mary Jane, but I think it's not at all honourable for 
the pope to turn out the women out of the choirs that have slaved there all their lives 
and put little whipper-snappers of boys over their heads. I suppose it is for the good of 
the Church if the pope does it. But it's not just, Mary Jane, and it's not right."

She had worked herself into a passion and would have continued in defence of her sister 
for it was a sore subject with her but Mary Jane, seeing that all the dancers had come 
back, intervened pacifically:

"Now, Aunt Kate, you're giving scandal to Mr. Browne who is of the other persuasion."

Aunt Kate turned to Mr. Browne, who was grinning at this allusion to his religion, and 
said hastily:

"O, I don't question the pope's being right. I'm only a stupid old woman and I wouldn't 
presume to do such a thing. But there's such a thing as common everyday politeness and 
gratitude. And if I were in Julia's place I'd tell that Father Healey straight up to his 
face..."

"And besides, Aunt Kate," said Mary Jane, "we really are all hungry and when we are 
hungry we are all very quarrelsome."

"And when we are thirsty we are also quarrelsome," added Mr. Browne.

"So that we had better go to supper," said Mary Jane, "and finish the discussion 
afterwards."

On the landing outside the drawing-room Gabriel found his wife and Mary Jane trying to 
persuade Miss Ivors to stay for supper. But Miss Ivors, who had put on her hat and was 
buttoning her cloak, would not stay. She did not feel in the least hungry and she had 
already overstayed her time.

"But only for ten minutes, Molly," said Mrs. Conroy. "That won't delay you."

"To take a pick itself," said Mary Jane, "after all your dancing."

"I really couldn't," said Miss Ivors.

"I am afraid you didn't enjoy yourself at all," said Mary Jane hopelessly.

"Ever so much, I assure you," said Miss Ivors, "but you really must let me run off now."

"But how can you get home?" asked Mrs. Conroy.

"O, it's only two steps up the quay."

Gabriel hesitated a moment and said:

"If you will allow me, Miss Ivors, I'll see you home if you are really obliged to go."

But Miss Ivors broke away from them.

"I won't hear of it," she cried. "For goodness' sake go in to your suppers and don't mind 
me. I'm quite well able to take care of myself."

"Well, you're the comical girl, Molly," said Mrs. Conroy frankly.

"Beannacht libh," cried Miss Ivors, with a laugh, as she ran down the staircase.

Mary Jane gazed after her, a moody puzzled expression on her face, while Mrs. Conroy 
leaned over the banisters to listen for the hall-door. Gabriel asked himself was he the 
cause of her abrupt departure. But she did not seem to be in ill humour: she had gone 
away laughing. He stared blankly down the staircase.

At the moment Aunt Kate came toddling out of the supper-room, almost wringing her hands 
in despair.

"Where is Gabriel?" she cried. "Where on earth is Gabriel? There's everyone waiting in 
there, stage to let, and nobody to carve the goose!"

"Here I am, Aunt Kate!" cried Gabriel, with sudden animation, "ready to carve a flock of 
geese, if necessary."

A fat brown goose lay at one end of the table and at the other end, on a bed of creased 
paper strewn with sprigs of parsley, lay a great ham, stripped of its outer skin and 
peppered over with crust crumbs, a neat paper frill round its shin and beside this was 
a round of spiced beef. Between these rival ends ran parallel lines of side-dishes: two 
little minsters of jelly, red and yellow; a shallow dish full of blocks of blancmange and 
red jam, a large green leaf-shaped dish with a stalk-shaped handle, on which lay bunches 
of purple raisins and peeled almonds, a companion dish on which lay a solid rectangle of 
Smyrna figs, a dish of custard topped with grated nutmeg, a small bowl full of chocolates 
and sweets wrapped in gold and silver papers and a glass vase in which stood some tall 
celery stalks. In the centre of the table there stood, as sentries to a fruit-stand which 
upheld a pyramid of oranges and American apples, two squat old-fashioned decanters of cut 
glass, one containing port and the other dark sherry. On the closed square piano a 
pudding in a huge yellow dish lay in waiting and behind it were three squads of bottles 
of stout and ale and minerals, drawn up according to the colours of their uniforms, the 
first two black, with brown and red labels, the third and smallest squad white, with 
transverse green sashes.

Gabriel took his seat boldly at the head of the table and, having looked to the edge of 
the carver, plunged his fork firmly into the goose. He felt quite at ease now for he was 
an expert carver and liked nothing better than to find himself at the head of a 
well-laden table.

Complete the story