Mr. Duffy abhorred anything which betokened physical or mental disorder.  A medival doctor would have called him saturnine.  His face, which carried the entire tale of his years, was of the brown tint of Dublin streets.  On his long and rather large head grew dry black hair and a tawny moustache did not quite cover an unamiable mouth.  His cheekbones also gave his face a harsh character; but there was no harshness in the eyes which, looking at the world from under their tawny eyebrows, gave the impression of a man ever alert to greet a redeeming instinct in others but often disappointed.  He lived at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glasses.  He had an odd autobiographical habit which led him to compose in his mind from time to time a short sentence about himself containing a subject in the third person and a predicate in the past tense.  He never gave alms to beggars and walked firmly, carrying a stout hazel.

He had been for many years cashier of a private bank in Baggot Street.  Every morning he came in from Chapelizod by tram.  At midday he went to Dan Burke’s and took his lunch—­a bottle of lager beer and a small trayful of arrowroot biscuits.  At four o’clock he was set free.  He dined in an eating-house in George’s Street where he felt himself safe from the society o Dublin’s gilded youth and where there was a certain plain honesty in the bill of fare.  His evenings were spent either before his landlady’s piano or roaming about the outskirts of the city.  His liking for Mozart’s music brought him sometimes to an opera or a concert:  these were the only dissipations of his life.

He had neither companions nor friends, church nor creed.  He lived his spiritual life without any communion with others, visiting his relatives at Christmas and escorting them to the cemetery when they died.  He performed these two social duties for old dignity’s sake but conceded nothing further to the conventions which regulate the civic life.  He allowed himself to think that in certain circumstances he would rob his hank but, as these circumstances never arose, his life rolled out evenly—­an adventureless tale.

One evening he found himself sitting beside two ladies in the Rotunda.  The house, thinly peopled and silent, gave distressing prophecy of failure.  The lady who sat next him looked round at the deserted house once or twice and then said: 

“What a pity there is such a poor house tonight!  It’s so hard on people to have to sing to empty benches.”

He took the remark as an invitation to talk.  He was surprised that she seemed so little awkward.  While they talked he tried to fix her permanently in his memory.  When he learned that the young girl beside her was her daughter he judged her to be a year or so younger than himself.  Her face, which must have been handsome, had remained intelligent.  It was an oval face with strongly marked features.  The eyes were very dark blue and steady.  Their gaze began with a defiant note but was confused by what seemed a deliberate swoon of the pupil into the iris, revealing for an instant a temperament of great sensibility.  The pupil reasserted itself quickly, this half- disclosed nature fell again under the reign of prudence, and her astrakhan jacket, moulding a bosom of a certain fullness, struck the note of defiance more definitely.