At half-past eleven Mary Ellen and Mrs. Gregg came out of the hotel together. Mary Ellen’s costume was beautifully complete. An English tourist accustomed to buy the coloured picture postcards with which the Germans obligingly supply our shops, would have recognised her at once as an Irish colleen. Her stockings were of the brightest shade of green. Her shoes, which were highly polished, had aggressively square toes and enormous steel buckles which flashed in the sunlight as she walked. Her skirt reached half way down the calves of her legs. It was of crimson flannel, made very wide. A green and black tartan shawl was fastened round her with a large Tara brooch which also held in its place a trail of shamrock. Underneath the shawl she had a green silk blouse. It showed very little but it exactly matched her stockings. Her hair was brushed smoothly back from her forehead, and covered with a black and white-checked kerchief tied beneath her chin and falling in a neat triangle at the nape of her neck. Mrs. Gregg, who was naturally very pleased, led Mary Ellen over to the statue, placed her beside it, and told her not to move or in any way disorder her dress. Then she herself hurried away. Constable Moriarty, who was on guard beside the statue, scowled at Mary Ellen. He approached her slowly, walked round her, surveyed her from every point of view, and then snorted with intense disapproval. “Your mother wouldn’t know you,” he said. Mary Ellen smiled. She was greatly pleased at her own appearance and chose to take Moriarty’s remark as a compliment. “She might not,” she said, in a tone of evident delight. Moriarty intended to say more; but at that moment the town band began to play. Young Kerrigan had collected the members of it early in the day and kept them in a group outside his father’s shop. The arrival of Mary Ellen seemed to him to be a suitable occasion for a tune. He gave a signal and the band struck up. “Rich and Rare Were the Gems She Wore” was the tune on which they chanced. It was remarkably appropriate. The band marched twice round the statue playing that tune. With the last note it came to rest again in its old position outside Kerrigan’s shop. Then Thady Gallagher came out of his office. He walked over and looked at Mary Ellen. “If you’re not ashamed of yourself,” he said, “you ought to be.” “I am not, then,” said Mary Ellen. Gallagher turned to Moriarty. “You’re sure now,” he said, “that the tune the band is to play is the one you told me.” Moriarty grinned malevolently. “I am sure,” he said. “For if you’re playing any kind of a trick on me——” “I am not. Amn’t I wanting to get my knife into the doctor the same as yourself?” “And why would you want that?” “It’s on account of the way he has Mary Ellen dressed up. Will you look at the girl?” Gallagher looked at her again, long and carefully. “Play acting!” said Moriarty, “and she’s a respectable girl. It’s not decent, so it’s not.”