O, lest he forget.  That letter to father provincial.

Father Conmee stopped three little schoolboys at the corner of Mountjoy square.  Yes:  they were from Belvedere.  The little house.  Aha.  And were they good boys at school?  O. That was very good now.  And what was his name?  Jack Sohan.  And his name?  Ger.  Gallaher.  And the other little man?  His name was Brunny Lynam.  O, that was a very nice name to have.

Father Conmee gave a letter from his breast to Master Brunny Lynam and pointed to the red pillarbox at the corner of Fitzgibbon street.

—­But mind you don’t post yourself into the box, little man, he said.

The boys sixeyed Father Conmee and laughed: 

—­O, sir.

—­Well, let me see if you can post a letter, Father Conmee said.

Master Brunny Lynam ran across the road and put Father Conmee’s letter to father provincial into the mouth of the bright red letterbox.  Father Conmee smiled and nodded and smiled and walked along Mountjoy square east.

Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c, in silk hat, slate frockcoat with silk facings, white kerchief tie, tight lavender trousers, canary gloves and pointed patent boots, walking with grave deportment most respectfully took the curbstone as he passed lady Maxwell at the corner of Dignam’s court.

Was that not Mrs M’Guinness?

Mrs M’Guinness, stately, silverhaired, bowed to Father Conmee from the farther footpath along which she sailed.  And Father Conmee smiled and saluted.  How did she do?

A fine carriage she had.  Like Mary, queen of Scots, something.  And to think that she was a pawnbroker!  Well, now!  Such a ... what should he say? ... such a queenly mien.

Father Conmee walked down Great Charles street and glanced at the shutup free church on his left.  The reverend T. R. Greene B.A. will (D.V.) speak.  The incumbent they called him.  He felt it incumbent on him to say a few words.  But one should be charitable.  Invincible ignorance.  They acted according to their lights.

Father Conmee turned the corner and walked along the North Circular road.  It was a wonder that there was not a tramline in such an important thoroughfare.  Surely, there ought to be.

A band of satchelled schoolboys crossed from Richmond street.  All raised untidy caps.  Father Conmee greeted them more than once benignly.  Christian brother boys.

Father Conmee smelt incense on his right hand as he walked.  Saint Joseph’s church, Portland row.  For aged and virtuous females.  Father Conmee raised his hat to the Blessed Sacrament.  Virtuous:  but occasionally they were also badtempered.

Near Aldborough house Father Conmee thought of that spendthrift nobleman.  And now it was an office or something.

Father Conmee began to walk along the North Strand road and was saluted by Mr William Gallagher who stood in the doorway of his shop.  Father Conmee saluted Mr William Gallagher and perceived the odours that came from baconflitches and ample cools of butter.  He passed Grogan’s the Tobacconist against which newsboards leaned and told of a dreadful catastrophe in New York.  In America those things were continually happening.  Unfortunate people to die like that, unprepared.  Still, an act of perfect contrition.