friend.

"You think so?" he said.

"You'll put your head in the sack," repeated Little Chandler stoutly,
"like everyone else if you can find the girl."

He had slightly emphasised his tone and he was aware that he had
betrayed himself; but, though the colour had heightened in his cheek, he
did not flinch from his friend's gaze. Ignatius Gallaher watched him for
a few moments and then said:

"If ever it occurs, you may bet your bottom dollar there'll be no
mooning and spooning about it. I mean to marry money. She'll have a good
fat account at the bank or she won't do for me."

Little Chandler shook his head.

"Why, man alive," said Ignatius Gallaher, vehemently, "do you know what
it is? I've only to say the word and tomorrow I can have the woman
and the cash. You don't believe it? Well, I know it. There are
hundreds--what am I saying?--thousands of rich Germans and Jews, rotten
with money, that'd only be too glad.... You wait a while my boy. See if
I don't play my cards properly. When I go about a thing I mean business,
I tell you. You just wait."

He tossed his glass to his mouth, finished his drink and laughed loudly.
Then he looked thoughtfully before him and said in a calmer tone:

"But I'm in no hurry. They can wait. I don't fancy tying myself up to
one woman, you know."

He imitated with his mouth the act of tasting and made a wry face.

"Must get a bit stale, I should think," he said.

Little Chandler sat in the room off the hall, holding a child in his
arms. To save money they kept no servant but Annie's young sister Monica
came for an hour or so in the morning and an hour or so in the evening
to help. But Monica had gone home long ago. It was a quarter to nine.
Little Chandler had come home late for tea and, moreover, he had
forgotten to bring Annie home the parcel of coffee from Bewley's. Of
course she was in a bad humour and gave him short answers. She said she
would do without any tea but when it came near the time at which the
shop at the corner closed she decided to go out herself for a quarter
of a pound of tea and two pounds of sugar. She put the sleeping child
deftly in his arms and said:

"Here. Don't waken him."

A little lamp with a white china shade stood upon the table and its
light fell over a photograph which was enclosed in a frame of crumpled
horn. It was Annie's photograph. Little Chandler looked at it, pausing
at the thin tight lips. She wore the pale blue summer blouse which