Дублінці
The Dead
Shedidnotwearalow-cutbodiceandthelargebroochwhichwasfixedinthefrontofhercollarboreonitanIrishdeviceandmotto.
Whentheyhadtakentheirplacesshesaidabruptly:
“Ihaveacrowtopluckwithyou.”
“Withme?”saidGabriel.
Shenoddedherheadgravely.
“Whatisit?”askedGabriel,smilingathersolemnmanner.
“WhoisG.C.?”answeredMissIvors,turninghereyesuponhim.
Gabrielcolouredandwasabouttoknithisbrows,asifhedidnotunderstand,whenshesaidbluntly:
“O,innocentAmy!IhavefoundoutthatyouwriteforTheDailyExpress.Now,aren’tyouashamedofyourself?”
“WhyshouldIbeashamedofmyself?”askedGabriel,blinkinghiseyesandtryingtosmile.
“Well,I’mashamedofyou,”saidMissIvorsfrankly.“Tosayyou’dwriteforapaperlikethat.Ididn’tthinkyouwereaWestBriton.”
AlookofperplexityappearedonGabriel’sface.ItwastruethathewrotealiterarycolumneveryWednesdayinTheDailyExpress,forwhichhewaspaidfifteenshillings.ButthatdidnotmakehimaWestBritonsurely.Thebookshereceivedforreviewwerealmostmorewelcomethanthepaltrycheque.Helovedtofeelthecoversandturnoverthepagesofnewlyprintedbooks.
