While his forehead was being wrinkled and his jaws painted black and blue by the elderly man, he listened distractedly to the voice of the plump young jesuit which bade him speak up and make his points clearly.  He could hear the band playing the Lily of Killarney and knew that in a few moments the curtain would go up.  He felt no stage fright but the thought of the part he had to play humiliated him.  A remembrance of some of his lines made a sudden flush rise to his painted cheeks.  He saw her serious alluring eyes watching him from among the audience and their image at once swept away his scruples, leaving his will compact.  Another nature seemed to have been lent him:  the infection of the excitement and youth about him entered into and transformed his moody mistrustfulness.  For one rare moment he seemed to be clothed in the real apparel of boyhood:  and, as he stood in the wings among the other players, he shared the common mirth amid which the drop scene was hauled upwards by two able-bodied priests with violent jerks and all awry.

A few moments after he found himself on the stage amid the garish gas and the dim scenery, acting before the innumerable faces of the void.  It surprised him to see that the play which he had known at rehearsals for a disjointed lifeless thing had suddenly assumed a life of its own.  It seemed now to play itself, he and his fellow actors aiding it with their parts.  When the curtain fell on the last scene he heard the void filled with applause and, through a rift in a side scene, saw the simple body before which he had acted magically deformed, the void of faces breaking at all points and falling asunder into busy groups.

He left the stage quickly and rid himself of his mummery and passed out through the chapel into the college garden.  Now that the play was over his nerves cried for some further adventure.  He hurried onwards as if to overtake it.  The doors of the theatre were all open and the audience had emptied out.  On the lines which he had fancied the moorings of an ark a few lanterns swung in the night breeze, flickering cheerlessly.  He mounted the steps from the garden in haste, eager that some prey should not elude him, and forced his way through the crowd in the hall and past the two jesuits who stood watching the exodus and bowing and shaking hands with the visitors.  He pushed onward nervously, feigning a still greater haste and faintly conscious of the smiles and stares and nudges which his powdered head left in its wake.

When he came out on the steps he saw his family waiting for him at the first lamp.  In a glance he noted that every figure of the group was familiar and ran down the steps angrily.

—­I have to leave a message down in George’s Street, he said to his father quickly.  I’ll be home after you.

Without waiting for his father’s questions he ran across the road and began to walk at breakneck speed down the hill.  He hardly knew where he was walking.  Pride and hope and desire like crushed herbs in his heart sent up vapours of maddening incense before the eyes of his mind.  He strode down the hill amid the tumult of sudden-risen vapours of wounded pride and fallen hope and baffled desire.  They streamed upwards before his anguished eyes in dense and maddening fumes and passed away above him till at last the air was clear and cold again.