of his poems; besides that, he would put in allusions.  He began to invent sentences and phrases from the notice which his book would get.  “Mr. Chandler has the gift of easy and graceful verse.” ... “wistful sadness pervades these poems.” ...  “The Celtic note.”  It was a pity his name was not more Irish-looking.  Perhaps it would be better to insert his mother’s name before the surname:  Thomas Malone Chandler, or better still:  T. Malone Chandler.  He would speak to Gallaher about it.

He pursued his revery so ardently that he passed his street and had to turn back.  As he came near Corless’s his former agitation began to overmaster him and he halted before the door in indecision.  Finally he opened the door and entered.

The light and noise of the bar held him at the doorways for a few moments.  He looked about him, but his sight was confused by the shining of many red and green wine-glasses The bar seemed to him to be full of people and he felt that the people were observing him curiously.  He glanced quickly to right and left (frowning slightly to make his errand appear serious), but when his sight cleared a little he saw that nobody had turned to look at him:  and there, sure enough, was Ignatius Gallaher leaning with his back against the counter and his feet planted far apart.

“Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are!  What is it to be?  What will you have?  I’m taking whisky:  better stuff than we get across the water.  Soda?  Lithia?  No mineral?  I’m the same Spoils the flavour....  Here, garcon, bring us two halves of malt whisky, like a good fellow....  Well, and how have you been pulling along since I saw you last?  Dear God, how old we’re getting!  Do you see any signs of aging in me—­eh, what?  A little grey and thin on the top—­ what?”

Ignatius Gallaher took off his hat and displayed a large closely cropped head.  His face was heavy, pale and cleanshaven.  His eyes, which were of bluish slate-colour, relieved his unhealthy pallor and shone out plainly above the vivid orange tie he wore.  Between these rival features the lips appeared very long and shapeless and colourless.  He bent his head and felt with two sympathetic fingers the thin hair at the crown.  Little Chandler shook his head as a denial.  Ignatius Galaher put on his hat again.

“It pulls you down,” be said, “Press life.  Always hurry and scurry, looking for copy and sometimes not finding it:  and then, always to have something new in your stuff.  Damn proofs and printers, I say, for a few days.  I’m deuced glad, I can tell you, to get back to the old country.  Does a fellow good, a bit of a holiday.  I feel a ton better since I landed again in dear dirty Dublin....  Here you are, Tommy.  Water?  Say when.”

Little Chandler allowed his whisky to be very much diluted.

“You don’t know what’s good for you, my boy,” said Ignatius Gallaher.  “I drink mine neat.”

“I drink very little as a rule,” said Little Chandler modestly.  “An odd half-one or so when I meet any of the old crowd:  that’s all.”