“I hope you’ll spend an evening with us,” he said, “before you go back. My wife will be delighted to meet you. We can have a little music and——” “Thanks awfully, old chap,” said Ignatius Gallaher, “I’m sorry we didn’t meet earlier. But I must leave tomorrow night.” “Tonight, perhaps...?” “I’m awfully sorry, old man. You see I’m over here with another fellow, clever young chap he is too, and we arranged to go to a little card-party. Only for that....” “O, in that case....” “But who knows?” said Ignatius Gallaher considerately. “Next year I may take a little skip over here now that I’ve broken the ice. It’s only a pleasure deferred.” “Very well,” said Little Chandler, “the next time you come we must have an evening together. That’s agreed now, isn’t it?” “Yes, that’s agreed,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “Next year if I come, _parole d’honneur_.” “And to clinch the bargain,” said Little Chandler, “we’ll just have one more now.” Ignatius Gallaher took out a large gold watch and looked at it. “Is it to be the last?” he said. “Because you know, I have an a.p.” “O, yes, positively,” said Little Chandler. “Very well, then,” said Ignatius Gallaher, “let us have another one as a _deoc an doruis_—that’s good vernacular for a small whisky, I believe.” Little Chandler ordered the drinks. The blush which had risen to his face a few moments before was establishing itself. A trifle made him blush at any time: and now he felt warm and excited. Three small whiskies had gone to his head and Gallaher’s strong cigar had confused his mind, for he was a delicate and abstinent person. The adventure of meeting Gallaher after eight years, of finding himself with Gallaher in Corless’s surrounded by lights and noise, of listening to Gallaher’s stories and of sharing for a brief space Gallaher’s vagrant and triumphant life, upset the equipoise of his sensitive nature. He felt acutely the contrast between his own life and his friend’s and it seemed to him unjust. Gallaher was his inferior in birth and education. He was sure that he could do something better than his friend had ever done, or could ever do, something higher than mere tawdry journalism if he only got the chance. What was it that stood in his way? His unfortunate timidity! He wished to vindicate himself in some way, to assert his manhood. He saw behind Gallaher’s refusal of his invitation. Gallaher was only patronising him by his friendliness just as he was patronising Ireland by his visit. The barman brought their drinks. Little Chandler pushed one glass towards his friend and took up the other boldly. “Who knows?” he said, as they lifted their glasses. “When you come next year I may have the pleasure of wishing long life and happiness to Mr and Mrs Ignatius Gallaher.” Ignatius Gallaher in the act of drinking closed one eye expressively over the rim of his glass. When he had drunk he smacked his lips decisively, set down his glass and said: