his degree in the Royal
University. A shadow passed over his face as he remembered her sullen
opposition to his marriage. Some slighting phrases she had used still
rankled in his memory; she had once spoken of Gretta as being country
cute and that was not true of Gretta at all. It was Gretta who had
nursed her during all her last long illness in their house at Monkstown.

He knew that Mary Jane must be near the end of her piece for she was
playing again the opening melody with runs of scales after every bar and
while he waited for the end the resentment died down in his heart.
The piece ended with a trill of octaves in the treble and a final deep
octave in the bass. Great applause greeted Mary Jane as, blushing and
rolling up her music nervously, she escaped from the room. The most
vigorous clapping came from the four young men in the doorway who had
gone away to the refreshment-room at the beginning of the piece but had
come back when the piano had stopped.

Lancers were arranged. Gabriel found himself partnered with Miss Ivors.
She was a frank-mannered talkative young lady, with a freckled face and
prominent brown eyes. She did not wear a low-cut bodice and the large
brooch which was fixed in the front of her collar bore on it an Irish
device and motto.

When they had taken their places she said abruptly:

"I have a crow to pluck with you."

"With me?" said Gabriel.

She nodded her head gravely.

"What is it?" asked Gabriel, smiling at her solemn manner.

"Who is G. C.?" answered Miss Ivors, turning her eyes upon him.

Gabriel coloured and was about to knit his brows, as if he did not
understand, when she said bluntly:

"O, innocent Amy! I have found out that you write for The Daily Express.
Now, aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"Why should I be ashamed of myself?" asked Gabriel, blinking his eyes
and trying to smile.

"Well, I'm ashamed of you," said Miss Ivors frankly. "To say you'd write
for a paper like that. I didn't think you were a West Briton."

A look of perplexity appeared on Gabriel's face. It was true that he
wrote a literary column every Wednesday in The Daily Express, for which
he was paid fifteen shillings. But that did not make him a West Briton
surely. The books he received for review were almost more welcome than
the paltry cheque. He loved to feel the covers and turn over the pages
of newly printed books. Nearly every day when his teaching in the
college was ended he used to wander