But Lenehan could well believe it; he nodded gravely.

“I know that game,” he said, “and it’s a mug’s game.”

“And damn the thing I ever got out of it,” said Corley.

“Ditto here,” said Lenehan.

“Only off of one of them,” said Corley.

He moistened his upper lip by running his tongue along it.  The recollection brightened his eyes.  He too gazed at the pale disc of the moon, now nearly veiled, and seemed to meditate.

She was... a bit of all right,” he said regretfully.

He was silent again.  Then he added: 

“She’s on the turf now.  I saw her driving down Earl Street one night with two fellows with her on a car.”

“I suppose that’s your doing,” said Lenehan.

“There was others at her before me,” said Corley philosophically.

This time Lenehan was inclined to disbelieve.  He shook his head to and fro and smiled.

“You know you can’t kid me, Corley,” he said.

“Honest to God!” said Corley.  “Didn’t she tell me herself?”

Lenehan made a tragic gesture.

“Base betrayer!” he said.

As they passed along the railings of Trinity College, Lenehan skipped out into the road and peered up at the clock.

“Twenty after,” he said.

“Time enough,” said Corley.  “She’ll be there all right.  I always let her wait a bit.”

Lenehan laughed quietly.

’Ecod!  Corley, you know how to take them,” he said.

“I’m up to all their little tricks,” Corley confessed.

“But tell me,” said Lenehan again, “are you sure you can bring it off all right?  You know it’s a ticklish job.  They’re damn close on that point.  Eh? ...  What?”

His bright, small eyes searched his companion’s face for reassurance.  Corley swung his head to and fro as if to toss aside an insistent insect, and his brows gathered.

“I’ll pull it off,” he said.  “Leave it to me, can’t you?”

Lenehan said no more.  He did not wish to ruffle his friend’s temper, to be sent to the devil and told that his advice was not wanted.  A little tact was necessary.  But Corley’s brow was soon smooth again.  His thoughts were running another way.

“She’s a fine decent tart,” he said, with appreciation; “that’s what she is.”

They walked along Nassau Street and then turned into Kildare Street.  Not far from the porch of the club a harpist stood in the roadway, playing to a little ring of listeners.  He plucked at the wires heedlessly, glancing quickly from time to time at the face of each new-comer and from time to time, wearily also, at the sky.  His harp, too, heedless that her coverings had fallen about her knees, seemed weary alike of the eyes of strangers and of her master’s hands.  One hand played in the bass the melody of Silent, O Moyle, while the other hand careered in the treble after each group of notes.  The notes of the air sounded deep and full.