Little Chandler blushed and smiled.

“Yes,” he said.  “I was married last May twelve months.”

“I hope it’s not too late in the day to offer my best wishes,” said Ignatius Gallaher.  “I didn’t know your address or I’d have done so at the time.”

He extended his hand, which Little Chandler took.

“Well, Tommy,” he said, “I wish you and yours every joy in life, old chap, and tons of money, and may you never die till I shoot you.  And that’s the wish of a sincere friend, an old friend.  You know that?”

“I know that,” said Little Chandler.

“Any youngsters?” said Ignatius Gallaher.

Little Chandler blushed again.

“We have one child,” he said.

“Son or daughter?”

“A little boy.”

Ignatius Gallaher slapped his friend sonorously on the back.

“Bravo,” he said, “I wouldn’t doubt you, Tommy.”

Little Chandler smiled, looked confusedly at his glass and bit his lower lip with three childishly white front teeth.

“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 a 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