“I’m the world’s hero because I’m not a hero —I’m Constant Reader, Pro Bono Publico, Worried Taxpayer, Average Citizen—I write as if writing’s easy, unprofessional, no particular talent required, just a few pipes of tobacco and a sort of cute way of looking at things… I’m Lowbrow and I’m human—my God, how human I am —when I did a piece about my dog’s birthday I got over five hundred letters and a truckload of dog-food from readers… Did that ever happen to Shakespeare?… And I haven’t got a dog, I don’t smoke a pipe, and I think I’d loathe the fellow I pretend to be if ever I met him. One of these days, when I’ve made a big hit with a play, I’m going to lose all my public in one grand gesture—I shall confess that all the time I’ve been secretly enjoying Beethoven Quartets… Only I’m afraid the editor wouldn’t publish it, he wouldn’t let me destroy my humble little Frankenstein midget, always on the watch for the Funny Side of Things, bless his tiny guts… And finding it, too. My first article on Ireland—you’d never guess how I’ll start it—nothing about the Free State, or Cosgrave, or the shooting— leave that to the regular writers. I’ll do a piece about a girl—I met her just after I came ashore at Kingstown, Dunleary, whatever you call the place. I took a walk in the town and saw this girl driving a horse and buggy and she was sitting with one leg bent under her… the oddest thing… like this…” He got up from the chair and reseated himself with his own leg clumsily imitating the posture. He was aware by then that he had drunk too much.

Rowden said: “Charming, I’m sure. Some more brandy? No?… But coming back to the stage… of course, you know about our own Abbey Theatre? Maybe we should go one evening while you’re here…”

* * * * *

They went to the Abbey to see a new play called Moon of the Galtees, by a new Irish writer whom some of the critics had praised. It was typical of Rowden that he did not choose the opening night, that he bought seats in the third row, and that he took Paul to the city by tram. The chauffeur and Rolls-Royce would pick them up afterwards.

Paul was naturally astonished when he recognized Carey on the stage, as of course he did immediately, despite her part as a rather minor leprechaun. (It was that kind of play.) His desire to see her again revived and expanded, during the first act, into all kinds of agreeable expectations. At the interval he told Rowden excitedly that here was an amazing coincidence: that leprechaun was actually the girl at Kingstown, the one he intended to write about! Perhaps they could go back-stage after the show? But Rowden, at first vaguely assenting, then demurred. “I’m afraid it’ll be rather hot and noisy —if you’d like to meet Barry Fitzgerald and Arthur Shields I can have them to dinner at the house some evening. I know them fairly well. Yes, that’s quite an idea. Yeats, too—you MUST meet him—he’s usually here, but I don’t see him tonight. And perhaps Lennox Robinson and Dr. Starkie and A.E… We have a genuine intelligentsia—just the people you’ll enjoy meeting.”

“But I’d like to see that girl.”

“The LITTLE girl?”

“Sure. The leprechaun. After meeting her the way I did it would be amusing —”

“I’d preserve my illusions, if I were you. The article might work out better.”

“I wasn’t thinking of the article.”

“You like her acting, then?”

“Hell, no.” He added hastily: “I mean, she’s not good for the part, the part’s not good, she seems to be untrained, or else badly trained, or something.”

Rowden smiled. “It would be hard to make conversation then. Why don’t you write your little friend a note? And I’ll try to fix our party for next Sunday—that’s always a good day.”

So they didn’t go backstage, but Paul left a scribbled message for delivery to her after the show, and the next day he sent flowers. He wasn’t the kind of person who sent flowers to girls and he was rather surprised at himself for thinking of it.

She wrote back: “Thank you for the roses. I love roses, and everybody wondered who they were from. I didn’t see you in the audience, but I’d half expected you on opening night, because I’d left tickets for you at the box-office. I’d written to you about that at three hotels. I never thought you’d be staying anywhere else. All this sounds complicated, I’ll explain when we meet. You don’t say if you liked the play. Tomorrow will do fine —say two-thirty at the Pillar.”

The Pillar was the Nelson Pillar, stuck squarely and squatly astride the great width of O’Connell Street. Buildings on both sides had been destroyed in the ‘sixteen rebellion, but the Pillar had escaped except for bullet nicks; it dominated the scene, providing a terminal point for tram routes, and a lofty monument to an Englishman whose public and private life made his memory a constantly delightful anachronism in the streets of Dublin.