He smiled， glancing askance at her mocking eye. The same young eyes. The first night after the charades. Dolphin's Barn. He turned over the smudged pages. Ruby： the Pride of the Ring. Hello. Illustration. Fierce Italian with carriagewhip. Must be Ruby pride of the on the floor naked. Sheet kindly lent. The monster Maffei desisted and flung his victim from him with an oath. Cruelty behind it all. Doped animals. Trapeze at Hengler's. Had to look the other way. Mob gaping. Break your neck and we'll break our sides. Families of them. Bone them young so they metempsychosis. That we live after death. Our souls. That a man's soul after he dies. Dignam's soul...
-- Did you finish it？ he asked.
-- Yes， she said. There's nothing smutty in it. Is she in love with the first fellow all the time？
-- Never read it. Do you want another？
-- Yes. Get another of Paul de Kock's. Nice name he has.
She poured more tea into her cup， watching its flow sideways.
Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to Kearney， my guarantor. Reincarnation： that's the word.
-- Some people believe， he said， that we go on living in another body after death， that we lived before. They call it reincarnation. That we all lived before on the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet. They say we have forgotten it. Some say they remember their past lives.
The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. Better remind her of the word： metempsychosis. An example would be better. An example.
The Bath of the Nymph over the bed. Given away with the Easter number of Photo Bits： Splendid masterpiece in art colours. Tea before you put milk in. Not unlike her with her hair down： slimmer. Three and six I gave for the frame. She said it would look nice over the bed. Naked nymphs： Greece： and for instance all the people that lived then.
He turned the pages back.
-- Metempsychosis， he said， is what the ancient Greeks called it. They used to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree， for instance. What they called nymphs， for example.
Her spoon ceased to stir up the sugar. She gazed straight before her， inhaling through her arched nostrils.
-- There's a smell of burn， she said. Did you leave anything on the fire？
-- The kidney！ he cried suddenly.
He fitted the book roughly into his inner pocket and， stubbing his toes against the broken commode， hurried out towards the smell， stepping hastily down the stairs with a flurried stork's legs. Pungent smoke shot up in an angry Jet from a side of the pan. By prodding a prong of the fork under the kidney he detached it and turned it turtle on its back. Only a little burned. He tossed it off the pan on to a plate and let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it.
Cup of tea now. He sat down， cut and buttered a slice of the loaf. He shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to the cat. Then he put a forkful into his mouth， chewing with discernment the toothsome pliant meat. Done to a turn. A mouthful of tea. Then he cut away dies of bread， sopped one in the gravy and put it in his mouth. What was that about some young student and a picnic？ He creased out the letter at his side， reading it slowly as he chewed， sopping another die of bread in the gravy and raising it to his mouth.
Dearest Papli，
Thanks ever so much for the lovely birthday present. It suits me splendid. Everyone says I'm quite the belle in my new tam. I got mummy's lovely box of creams and am writing. They are lovely. I am getting on swimming in the photo business now. Mr Coghlan took one of me and Mrs will send when developed. We did great biz yesterday. Fair day and all the beef to the heels were in. We are going to lough Owel on Monday with a few friends to make a scrap picnic. Give my love to mummy and to yourself a big kiss and thanks. I hear them at the piano downstairs. There is to be a concert in the Greville Arms on Saturday. There is a young student comes here some evenings named Bannon his cousins or something are big swells he sings Boylan's (I was on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's) song about those seaside girls. Tell him silly Milly sends my best respects. Must now close with fondest love.
Your fond daughter， MILLY.
P.S. Excuse bad writing， am in a hurry. Byby.
M.
Fifteen yesterday. Curious， fifteenth of the month too. Her first birthday away from home. Separation. Remember the summer morning she was born， running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Jolly old woman. Lots of babies she must have helped into the world. She knew from the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. Well， God is good， sir. She knew at once. He would be eleven now if he had lived.
His vacant face stared pitying at the postscript. Excuse bad writing. Hurry. Piano downstairs. Coming out of her shell. Row with her in the XL Café about the bracelet. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look. Saucebox. He sopped other dies of bread in the gravy and ate piece after piece of kidney. Twelve and six a week. Not much. Still， she might do worse. Music hall stage. Young student. He drank a draught of cooler tea to wash down his meal. Then he read the letter again： twice.
O well： she knows how to mind herself. But if not？ No， nothing has happened. Of course it might. Wait in any case till it does. A wild piece of goods. Her slim legs running up the staircase. Destiny. Ripening now. Vain： very.
He smiled with troubled affection at the kitchen window.
Day I caught her in the street pinching her cheeks to make them red. An&Aelig；mic a little. Was given milk too long. On the Erin's King that day round the Kish. Damned old tub pitching about. Not a bit funky. Her pale blue scarf loose in the wind with her hair.
All dimpled cheek's and curls，
Your head it simply swirls.
Seaside girls. Torn envelope. Hands stuck in his trousers pockets， jarvey off for the day， singing. Friend of the family. Swurls， he says. Pier with lamps， summer evening， band，Those girls， those girls，
Those lovely seaside girls'
Milly too. Young kisses： the first. Far away now past. Mrs Marion. Reading lying back now， counting the strands of her hair， smiling， braiding.