The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went back to the two young men.  They began to talk of the same subject.  Once or twice the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder.

I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to make my interest in her wares seem the more real.  Then I turned away slowly and walked down the middle of the bazaar.  I allowed the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my pocket.  I heard a voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out.  The upper part of the hall was now completely dark.

Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.

EVELINE

She sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue.  Her head was leaned against the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odour of dusty cretonne.  She was tired.

Few people passed.  The man out of the last house passed on his way home; she heard his footsteps clacking along the concrete pavement and afterwards crunching on the cinder path before the new red houses.  One time there used to be a field there in which they used to play every evening with other people’s children.  Then a man from Belfast bought the field and built houses in it—­not like their little brown houses but bright brick houses with shining roofs.  The children of the avenue used to play together in that field —­the Devines, the Waters, the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers and sisters.  Ernest, however, never played:  he was too grown up.  Her father used often to hunt them in out of the field with his blackthorn stick; but usually little Keogh used to keep nix and call out when he saw her father coming.  Still they seemed to have been rather happy then.  Her father was not so bad then; and besides, her mother was alive.  That was a long time ago; she and her brothers and sisters were all grown up her mother was dead.  Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the Waters had gone back to England.  Everything changes.  Now she was going to go away like the others, to leave her home.

Home!  She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiar objects which she had dusted once a week for so many years, wondering where on earth all the dust came from.  Perhaps she would never see again those familiar objects from which she had never dreamed of being divided.  And yet during all those years she had never found out the name of the priest whose yellowing photograph hung on the wall above the broken harmonium beside the coloured print of the promises made to Blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque.  He had been a school friend of her father.  Whenever he showed the photograph to a visitor her father used to pass it with a casual word: 

“He is in Melbourne now.”