He turned back the way he had come, the rhythm of the engine pounding in his ears.  He began to doubt the reality of what memory told him.  He halted under a tree and allowed the rhythm to die away.  He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor her voice touch his ear.  He waited for some minutes listening.  He could hear nothing:  the night was perfectly silent.  He listened again:  perfectly silent.  He felt that he was alone.

IVY DAY IN THE COMMITTEE ROOM

Old Jack raked the cinders together with a piece of cardboard and spread them judiciously over the whitening dome of coals.  When the dome was thinly covered his face lapsed into darkness but, as he set himself to fan the fire again, his crouching shadow ascended the opposite wall and his face slowly reemerged into light.  It was an old man’s face, very bony and hairy.  The moist blue eyes blinked at the fire and the moist mouth fell open at times, munching once or twice mechanically when it closed.  When the cinders had caught he laid the piece of cardboard against the wall, sighed and said: 

“That’s better now, Mr. O’Connor.”

Mr. O’Connor, a grey-haired young man, whose face was disfigured by many blotches and pimples, had just brought the tobacco for a cigarette into a shapely cylinder but when spoken to he undid his handiwork meditatively.  Then he began to roll the tobacco again meditatively and after a moment’s thought decided to lick the paper.

“Did Mr. Tierney say when he’d be back?” he asked in a sky falsetto.

“He didn’t say.”

Mr. O’Connor put his cigarette into his mouth and began search his pockets.  He took out a pack of thin pasteboard cards.

“I’ll get you a match,” said the old man.

“Never mind, this’ll do,” said Mr. O’Connor.

He selected one of the cards and read what was printed on it: 

Municipal elections
----------
Royal exchange ward
----------
Mr. Richard J. Tierney, P.L.G., respectfully solicits the
favour of your vote and influence at the coming election
in the Royal Exchange Ward.

Mr. O’Connor had been engaged by Tierney’s agent to canvass one part of the ward but, as the weather was inclement and his boots let in the wet, he spent a great part of the day sitting by the fire in the Committee Room in Wicklow Street with Jack, the old caretaker.  They had been sitting thus since e short day had grown dark.  It was the sixth of October, dismal and cold out of doors.

Mr. O’Connor tore a strip off the card and, lighting it, lit his cigarette.  As he did so the flame lit up a leaf of dark glossy ivy the lapel of his coat.  The old man watched him attentively and then, taking up the piece of cardboard again, began to fan the fire slowly while his companion smoked.

“Ah, yes,” he said, continuing, “it’s hard to know what way to bring up children.  Now who’d think he’d turn out like that!  I sent him to the Christian Brothers and I done what I could him, and there he goes boosing about.  I tried to make him someway decent.”