new that he would regret in the morning but at present he was glad
of the rest, glad of the dark stupor that would cover up his folly. He
leaned his elbows on the table and rested his head between his hands,
counting the beats of his temples. The cabin door opened and he saw the
Hungarian standing in a shaft of grey light:

"Daybreak, gentlemen!"

TWO GALLANTS

THE grey warm evening of August had descended upon the city and a mild
warm air, a memory of summer, circulated in the streets. The streets,
shuttered for the repose of Sunday, swarmed with a gaily coloured crowd.
Like illumined pearls the lamps shone from the summits of their tall
poles upon the living texture below which, changing shape and hue
unceasingly, sent up into the warm grey evening air an unchanging
unceasing murmur.

Two young men came down the hill of Rutland Square. On of them was just
bringing a long monologue to a close. The other, who walked on the verge
of the path and was at times obliged to step on to the road, owing to
his companion's rudeness, wore an amused listening face. He was squat
and ruddy. A yachting cap was shoved far back from his forehead and the
narrative to which he listened made constant waves of expression break
forth over his face from the corners of his nose and eyes and mouth.
Little jets of wheezing laughter followed one another out of his
convulsed body. His eyes, twinkling with cunning enjoyment, glanced at
every moment towards his companion's face. Once or twice he rearranged
the light waterproof which he had slung over one shoulder in toreador
fashion. His breeches, his white rubber shoes and his jauntily slung
waterproof expressed youth. But his figure fell into rotundity at the
waist, his hair was scant and grey and his face, when the waves of
expression had passed over it, had a ravaged look.

When he was quite sure that the narrative had ended he laughed
noiselessly for fully half a minute. Then he said:

"Well!... That takes the biscuit!"

His voice seemed winnowed of vigour; and to enforce his words he added
with humour:

"That takes the solitary, unique, and, if I may so call it, recherche
biscuit!"

He became serious and silent when he had said this. His tongue was tired
for he had been talking all the afternoon in a public-house in Dorset
Street. Most people considered Lenehan a leech but, in spite of this
reputation, his adroitness and eloquence had always prevented his
friends from forming