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!”