As the cab drove across O’Connell Bridge Miss O’Callaghan said: 

“They say you never cross O’Connell Bridge without seeing a white horse.”

“I see a white man this time,” said Gabriel.

“Where?” asked Mr. Bartell D’Arcy.

Gabriel pointed to the statue, on which lay patches of snow.  Then he nodded familiarly to it and waved his hand.

“Good-night, Dan,” he said gaily.

When the cab drew up before the hotel, Gabriel jumped out and, in spite of Mr. Bartell D’Arcy’s protest, paid the driver.  He gave the man a shilling over his fare.  The man saluted and said: 

“A prosperous New Year to you, sir.”

“The same to you,” said Gabriel cordially.

She leaned for a moment on his arm in getting out of the cab and while standing at the curbstone, bidding the others good- night.  She leaned lightly on his arm, as lightly as when she had danced with him a few hours before.  He had felt proud and happy then, happy that she was his, proud of her grace and wifely carriage.  But now, after the kindling again of so many memories, the first touch of her body, musical and strange and perfumed, sent through him a keen pang of lust.  Under cover of her silence he pressed her arm closely to his side; and, as they stood at the hotel door, he felt that they had escaped from their lives and duties, escaped from home and friends and run away together with wild and radiant hearts to a new adventure.

An old man was dozing in a great hooded chair in the hall.  He lit a candle in the office and went before them to the stairs.  They followed him in silence, their feet falling in soft thuds on the thickly carpeted stairs.  She mounted the stairs behind the porter, her head bowed in the ascent, her frail shoulders curved as with a burden, her skirt girt tightly about her.  He could have flung his arms about her hips and held her still, for his arms were trembling with desire to seize her and only the stress of his nails against the palms of his hands held the wild impulse of his body in check.  The porter halted on the stairs to settle his guttering candle.  They halted, too, on the steps below him.  In the silence Gabriel could hear the falling of the molten wax into the tray and the thumping of his own heart against his ribs.

The porter led them along a corridor and opened a door.  Then he set his unstable candle down on a toilet-table and asked at what hour they were to be called in the morning.

“Eight,” said Gabriel.

The porter pointed to the tap of the electric-light and began a muttered apology, but Gabriel cut him short.

“We don’t want any light.  We have light enough from the street.  And I say,” he added, pointing to the candle, “you might remove that handsome article, like a good man.”

The porter took up his candle again, but slowly, for he was surprised by such a novel idea.  Then he mumbled good-night and went out.  Gabriel shot the lock to.