Дублинцы
Two Gallants
“Leaveittome,can’tyou?”
Lenehansaidnomore.Hedidnotwishtorufflehisfriend’stemper,tobesenttothedevilandtoldthathisadvicewasnotwanted.Alittletactwasnecessary.ButCorley’sbrowwassoonsmoothagain.Histhoughtswererunninganotherway.
“She’safinedecenttart,”hesaid,withappreciation;“that’swhatsheis.”
TheywalkedalongNassauStreetandthenturnedintoKildareStreet.Notfarfromtheporchoftheclubaharpiststoodintheroadway,playingtoalittleringoflisteners.Hepluckedatthewiresheedlessly,glancingquicklyfromtimetotimeatthefaceofeachnew-comerandfromtimetotime,wearilyalso,atthesky.Hisharp,too,heedlessthathercoveringshadfallenaboutherknees,seemedwearyalikeoftheeyesofstrangersandofhermaster’shands.OnehandplayedinthebassthemelodyofSilent,OMoyle,whiletheotherhandcareeredinthetrebleaftereachgroupofnotes.Thenotesoftheairsoundeddeepandfull.
Thetwoyoungmenwalkedupthestreetwithoutspeaking,themournfulmusicfollowingthem.WhentheyreachedStephen’sGreentheycrossedtheroad.Herethenoiseoftrams,thelightsandthecrowdreleasedthemfromtheirsilence.
“Theresheis!”saidCorley.
AtthecornerofHumeStreetayoungwomanwasstanding.Sheworeabluedressandawhitesailorhat.Shestoodonthecurbstone,swingingasunshadeinonehand.Lenehangrewlively.
